


Dark Windows

by GoblinCatKC



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy, Gen, Horror, Monsters, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 03:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11327532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinCatKC/pseuds/GoblinCatKC
Summary: (sequel to Clogged Drain) After the haunting of their home, the four head out to the farm to rest and recuperate, but there are no city lights here, and the forest is deep and dark. Ghosts are not all that may lurk in the darkness, watching them through the thin glass. (Artwork by H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids)





	1. Driving on a Lonely Snowy Night

The only one still awake, Raphael checked the speedometer and glanced back at the highway. Thirty-five miles an hour, but he didn't dare drive faster. The van's headlights gave him a small circle of light, and most of what he could see was snow falling in deep drifts against the blur of trees. Even with the high beams on, the rest of the road was dark.

A soft rustle to the right came as the map slid off of Donatello's legs, dislodged as he turned in his sleep, and Raphael glanced up at the rear view mirror briefly to see if it had woken up his siblings. Leonardo and Michelangelo had fallen against each other, eyes closed, matching the other's regular, deep breaths. Looking like one amorphous shape under the same blanket, they seemed to share one dream, shifting together and twitching at the same time.

He set the radio down a little lower, not wanting to wake any of them. The classic rock station gave him a little comfort as he drove alone, but he couldn't afford to be distracted while they slept. It was a vulnerability they trusted him with, completely dropping their guard even as they left the security of their home.

Shrugging at the seatbelt across his shoulder, he checked the side mirrors again, then readjusted the center rear view for a better look at the road behind them. As if the lair was secure—none of them had looked back as they left. They hadn't said anything about how long they would be away, and for all their joking that of course the ghosts had to be gone, that the haunting was over...

Michelangelo murmured in his sleep and turned fitfully, curling closer to Leonardo who responded in kind. Both of them shivered, burrowing a little deeper into the blanket so that only their scrunched eyes showed over the top. Raphael turned up the heater, then gently put his hand on Donatello's arm.

"Hey, wake up a sec," he said softly. "Donny."

With a short, quick breath, Donatello tensed, staring ahead at the road for a moment. His hands gripped the edge of the seat, digging into the fabric, then slowly releasing as he remembered where he was. Groaning as he sat straight, his voice cracking with exhaustion, he fumbled for the map, his hand reaching farther and farther until he finally looked down and sighed again when he saw it on the floor.

"How long've I been out?" Donatello asked, bending uncomfortably to pick up the map and then unfolding several panels.

"'Bout an hour," Raphael said. "I think we're getting close, but I can't really see the turn-offs all that clear."

"Yeah, no kidding. It's darker than underground." He looked down at the map, straining to make out details in the gloom.

"'Least it means we're the only ones out driving," Raphael said, reaching over to turn on the rear-view lamp on Donatello's side. From outside, anyone would have seen the two turtles clearly illuminated behind the windshield. "Ain't seen a car for hours. I say we can risk a little light."

Even the yellow glow was too bright at first, making them both wince. Donatello blinked several times, peering at the line of the interstate and the numbers along each road branching off from it. The farm lay circled in red ink with an arrow along the right off-ramp. He looked back at the road, finally spotting a mile marker.

"Two more exits," Donatello said. "Colson road. Then up to Dayten lane."

"And three houses down," Raphael finished with a nod. "Farm houses."

Their shoulders drooped. Three farm houses meant an extra half hour crammed in the van. Donatello leaned back and turned off the lamp, leaving the van in shadows again. The road darkened, and Raphael slowed down so that they were rolling gently over black ice that cracked under their tires.

Donatello looked over his shoulder. Neither of his brothers had moved, so fast asleep that they didn't notice the changes in pitch on the road or the jostling of the exit ramp as Raphael finally brought them off the highway. A few streetlamps lit the access road, sending dim waves of grey light over them in a soothing rhythm.

Behind them in the rear compartment, the few possessions they had brought stood securely stacked. Their bedrolls and pillows, extra blankets, his laptop and the video games, a few books and the old Trivial Pursuit boardgame... Comforts, all meant to wrap them up in a feeling of safety.

More than just safety. A dozen paper bags lay stuffed with supplies pulled from the refrigerator and pantry, enough to last for a little while, and they'd grabbed a few spare weapons in addition to their own. They weren't just running to the farm for relief. They were running, plain and simple.

"Have they slept the whole way?" Donatello whispered.

"Yeah," Raphael said. "They move a little sometimes, get closer. They look exhausted."

"They do," Donatello agreed, turning to the front again. "I'm glad we're out here."

"Yeah."

Raphael turned onto the next road, taking them down a hard-packed dirt road with no lights and post fences to guide them. The stones and gravel under the van droned loudly, finally rousing Michelangelo enough that he opened his eyes, peering over the edge of his blanket.

"Are we there yet?" he asked.

Rolling his eyes, Raphael half-smiled as he drove. "Almost, little bro'. How you doing?"

"Still tired." With a wiggle, he burrowed back under the cover and pushed his face against Leonardo's shoulder. "Lousy dreams."

"Ghosts?" Donatello asked, then grimaced at his own question.

"Nah." Michelangelo's voice came muffled under the thick fleece. "Training in the snow. You just know Leo's gonna try to make us do it eventually."

"Not if he knows what's good for him," Raphael grumbled.

"I don't think he will," Donatello said, meeting his look in the rear-view. "We're all too tired, him included. It'll just be a long, restful vacation."

No one replied. A vacation from what went unsaid.


	2. Into the Attic

As the van pulled into the farm driveway, on cue, all of them stretched and sat straight. Leonardo woke as Michelangelo moved, sighing deeply as he pushed himself upright, setting aside the blanket. He knew he'd been asleep for at least a few hours, but he felt as if he'd only blinked. Sleeping in the van usually left him feeling stiff, and tonight he felt as sore as after a full night's run.

Raphael turned off the engine, and the air began to cool.

"Okay, we're here." Raphael glanced over his shoulder. "Everyone awake?"

"Mm...yeah," Leonardo groaned, rolling one shoulder. "You got the keys?"

"Yup." Raphael jangled the handful of keys on a ring before handing them to Donatello. "How you wanna do this?"

"Same as usual," Leonardo said as he woke up fully. "Don gets the heater going. Mikey, start dinner. I'll check the perimeter—"

Raphael chuckled, shaking his head as if his big brother had just told a good joke. "As if. I'll check the fences this time."

About to argue, Leonardo thought better of it and tilted his head. A simple glance would tell anyone that he was in no condition to run the length of the extensive farm property in a deep snowfall. He nodded.

"Then I'll bring in supplies and check the house," Leonardo said, but he caught Raphael's look before his brother could turn around. "Make sure you take a comm and call in every few minutes."

"No problem," Raphael said. "It takes what, about ten minutes at top speed?"

Leonardo nodded once. "About. And don't slow down. The cold'll hit faster'n you think."

"I know, I know, worrywart."

Leaving the engine on for the lights, they all breathed deep to brace themselves against the coming cold. When they came out of the van, Donatello heading to the door to open it up while Raphael disappeared out of the narrow beam of the headlights. Michelangelo and Leonardo both grabbed handfuls of bags from the back and followed Donatello up the steps, slipping a little on patches of ice between the brown grass.

Snowflakes came down hard enough to bite, dripping down their shells. Leonardo looked around the yard as they waited, trying to peer past the gloomy highbeams even just a few feet from the van. He was no stranger to the dark. The sewers had long stretches of tunnels without any lights, punctuated only by the occasional rain gutter letting in moonlight or the golden haze from the streetlamps. But the past few years had seen him up on rooftops, growing accustomed to New York's constant glow.

The farmhouse did not have a constant glow. There were no streetlamps, no passing cars. Only the stars and the moon, hidden behind a layer of black clouds.

The front yard extended into nothingness, a patch of brown grass sticking through snow. He could barely make out the edges of the patio, and the rest of the house faded into gloom and the curtain made by the storm. Coming to the very edge of the fence, the forest wrapped around the property and towered over the roof, completely invisible but hemming them in all the same.

"Today, Donny," Michelangelo whined, stomping around to keep from freezing.

"Sorry," Donatello said, and the keys dropped to the floor. He picked them up with a curse and tried again. "I forgot which one it is and—got it!"

They tumbled inside, dropping their gear down inside by the door. Donatello slid his hand over the wall, finding the switch, and they all winced as the lights came on. He kept going, turning on lights as he went.

Going back for the rest of their things, Leonardo scolded himself for shivering and hunching his shoulders. It made him too easy a target. His hand settled on his belt, clutching twice before he remembered that his shuriken and knives were inside one of the bags. Painfully vulnerable, he leaned forward as he came around the van again, making sure there was no one waiting around the corner, then tossed several of the last bags to Michelangelo. They both ended up carrying four or five bags on both arms so they wouldn't have to make another trip.

Once they were safely inside again, Leonardo locked the door, set the deadbolt and shut the curtains. In the kitchen, Michelangelo rustled pots and plates while food went into the refrigerator and cabinets. Donatello, who'd unlocked the kitchen door for when Raphael returned, plugged in the refrigerator and gave Michelangelo a roll of his eyes as he opened the largest cabinet, examining the water heater.

"I'll be right back," Leonardo said. "Has Raph—"

The shellcell on the counter caught his attention. The screen flickered static, the signal broken up by the snowfall, and Raphael's voice crackled, thin but clear.

"By the east fence post. Nothing weird. Heading for the fence by the lake now."

Michelangelo nodded even though Raphael couldn't see him. "Ten-four good buddy, getting chow going, over."

Leonardo breathed a little sigh of relief. "Watch for the ravine," he called loud enough for his brother to hear him. "It's hard to spot even during the day."

"I hear you, fearless," Raphael called back. "Don't worry, I'm being careful."

Silence after that. Leonardo turned, heading back into the living room. There was a side room across from him, and he looked inside, walking the length of the walls and checking that the windows were locked. There was a desk he didn't look through, an old typewriter and a rug, and a few old photos on the wall, plus one closet which he opened, finding it empty save for an exposed bulb and a bare set of shelves.

The living room had a closet almost as bare. Then he went upstairs, checked the bathroom, pushing the shower curtain back and making sure the window there was locked. He couldn't help looking into the mirror, staring at his reflection for a moment, then glancing over his shoulder. Nothing. Slowly, unwillingly remembering the horror movies Raphael loved, he looked back at the mirror.

He laughed once at himself, but the anxiety didn't go away. Only a day ago, he'd fought a faceless form in the darkness, something fast enough to slide around his attack and strong enough to pull him across the floor. He'd only barely survived, and he didn't know what else in the dark he should be afraid of.

He left the light on as he went to the bedroom. Taking up the rest of the second floor, the room was large enough for the master bed, a rug and dresser. There was no place for anything to hide, so he checked the windows, pushing one firmly into its sill, loose despite being locked. Then he turned and looked up at the ceiling, pressing his hand to his head as he sighed.

The attic.

The stairs were still sealed and latched, and reason dictated that the attic would be untouched since their last visit. No one came here anymore besides them, and the rest of the house was untouched. Nothing could be in the attic. There was no point in looking. He'd just prove his brothers right when they called him a paranoid taskmaster.

With a resigned huff, he reached up, brought out the stairs, and cautiously began to climb.

He realized his mistake as soon as he was halfway inside. Why hadn't he brought one of their flashlights with him? Above his head, there was an empty socket and no lightbulb, and no light save for what came up from the bedroom. He could just make out silhouettes of boxes, both closed and open, the outlines of a stack of books and two large trunks. The scent of dust and old pages lingered despite the cold eating in from outside.

His breath fogged in front of him. He was only a few thin boards away from the howling winter wind, and the air here was almost as uncomfortable as being on the porch. The faster he searched, the faster he could go back downstairs.

There were no windows. The floor creaked as he moved by, creeping across boxes and bags. There was no room to walk. When he reached the opposite side, he could barely see anything, too far from the door for the light to reach. He brushed rough wood, the edges of cardboard so old that its surface crumbled under his fingers. Books fluttered at his touch, and out of curiosity, he gathered a handful from the top.

Too close to the roof, thunder exploded, thrumming in his shell.

Frozen in place, he expected a cold hand to drop on his shoulder and yank him into the darkness. Not moving, not breathing, he held perfectly still, straining to hear anything. So quiet. Snowflakes landed on the roof with soft pats. Something rattled downstairs, followed by his brothers' voices.

Another rumble of thunder, low and constantly rolling.

Sick at himself for panicking, he crept out of the attic and shut the stairs back up, firmly locking them in place. As he came back to the living room, warmth spilled inside from the kitchen, radiating from the oven.

Michelangelo heard him coming, looking over his shoulder as he bent over the stove.

"Dinner in ten," he said. "And Raph'll be back in five."

"Got the heater going!" Donatello called out, followed by a click and dust puffing out of the vents.

The house grew warmer, giving them a sense of sharp relief. With nothing immediately demanding Leonardo's attention, he flopped back on the armchair, stretching out sideways so the chair cradled him.

He could relax here. The living room was as familiar as ever, the spot they usually occupied when they visited, and tonight they would go so far as to sleep on futons piled in front of the fireplace. Their bedrolls lay by the door, and he considered spreading them out when he realized he still had the books in his hand.

_Budget: 1893-1894 – Equipment, Seed, Produce._

_Farmer's Almanac, Year of Our Lord 1892._

_Fauna boreali-americana: containing descriptions of the objects of natural history of New York (1829)._

He frowned, skimming them before setting them on the floor. The titles didn't stand out to him. Sometimes he forgot that the reason they called this place the farm was because it had been one, albeit a long time ago. Had no one ever cleared out the attic?

The next book only had a bare cover, frayed at the edges with brittle yellow pages half stuck in at the center. The spine creaked from decades of disuse and on the next page was swirling, embellished lettering, _June Mayfield: Diary and Correspondence in the Winter of 1893._ Leonardo sighed and tossed that on the stack growing beside him on the floor. He didn't expect a stack of old comics or pulp novels, but there had to be something besides ledgers or manuals.

_Long Island to Yorktown: A History of the Revolution in New York._ At least that sounded more interesting. Giving his siblings one more glance to make sure they were all right, catching Raphael's voice on the shellcell that he was on his way back, Leonardo finally began to relax.

He opened the book, taking in the first page with a map and dotted lines showing the major troop movements of George Washington's army, reading the notation with it. _Through thick forest and savage wilderness, the general kept his soldiers together despite cruel and biting winters, sometimes set upon seemingly by nature herself..._

Before he could finish the sentence, he'd passed out.


	3. Frozen Run

Raphael face-planted into the ravine before he realized it was there, mistaking the expanse of snow for flat ground and instead discovering a five foot deep drift. Shaking snow from his mask, he growled as he climbed back out, scraping his hands on exposed tree roots that were more ice than bark.

"You okay?"

He paused, refusing to answer Michelangelo's tinny voice for a moment. His little brother had the damndest timing. More importantly, he was not about to admit he fell right into the ravine just after Leonardo's warning.

"Fine," he said, spitting out a stone. "Just coming to the lake now."

"Is it frozen over?" Michelangelo asked, sounding like an excited child. "Can you see it? Could we like ice skate on it?"

Raphael came to rest at the edge of the lake, crouching on a fallen log so he didn't sink into the snow surrounding the half-moon stretch of water. A vicious flurry of ice and snow cut across him, and he huddled closer into his shell, hissing in pain.

"No one's sk-skating there," he shuddered, stammering as he felt the cold sinking into his bones. "S-snow's really biting. Don't think I c-can check everything tonight."

"Get back here," Michelangelo said, suddenly serious. "You've been out there too long."

"Y-yeah."

Feeling as though he were admitting defeat, Raphael nodded even though his brother couldn't see him. He stood, sheltering in the small wind break of the trees, and peered through the blowing snow. The lake was modest, easy to swim across during the summer, and the trees extended in all directions for miles around.

He paused. Cold as he was, he didn't move for several seconds, scanning the tree line. The farm had once been part of an apple orchard, but the land had been left to grow wild. Bare of leaves, the black twigs bent with the wind, clacking together, and beyond them lay the thick bushes and brambles that had sprung up without anyone to trim them back. They looked as dead and brown as everything else, covered in a heavy layer of ice, but just past them, a little further back behind the tall lines of sleeping apple trees, branches swayed in the wind like bones...

"Do you need me to get you?"

Raphael startled at his brother's voice, then grunted a reply and turned, running for the farm house. Cold leeched the heat from his body, and he felt like he was running on thorns the whole way back. The snow stung like hot brands, and he leaned into the wind, dodging dark trees as he plodded through deep drifts.

By the time Raphael saw the glow of the farm house, he couldn't feel his hands. He came up the steps and tried once, twice for the doorknob, each time unsuccessfully. His fingers slipped off the round handle until finally a shadow passed in front of the door.

The golden light poured from the kitchen as Michelangelo opened the door and swept him in, already stripping off the soaked red mask. A towel landed around Raphael's shoulders as Michelangelo pulled him to the fireplace, dropping him on the futons he'd unrolled earlier.

"Should've made the fire sooner," Michelangelo muttered to himself. "Go on, towel off."

Raphael wiped the melted snow from his arms and legs, sweeping along the top of his shell as Donatello called back from the kitchen, saying something about bringing hot stew.

Michelangelo busily took a log from the small woodpile and tossed it into the fireplace. He had to get up once to rifle through one of their bags, digging out a newspaper that had been crumpled and stuffed in by accident, and he tore the large sheet strips that he then put a match to. In a moment, the log caught and warmth flooded toward them.

Raphael edged so close to the fireplace that his skin hurt from the heat, but he grit his teeth and made himself stay near. Little by little, his muscles stopped trembling and began to relax. His shoulders fell, and his hands steadied just as Donatello returned with a bowl of hot soup.

"Oh good, now you don't look like an icicle," Donatello said. "Here."

With a cloth around the bowl to protect their hands, Michelangelo passed the soup to Raphael, making sure he wasn't going to drop it or shake too hard to eat. The towel was on the floor, so he grabbed it and finished drying Raphael's shell, glancing over his shoulder as he did.

Raphael followed his look. Leonardo lay sideways on the sofa, head dropped on his shoulder, legs dangling over the side. A book lay under his hand, something old that Raphael doubted could be all that interesting.

"So," Raphael murmured, "he's out again."

"Yeah. But he's getting better?" Michelangelo said. "Right?"

"Sure," Raphael said, bolting down a mouthful before he could feel it burn his tongue. As his body's core began to heat up, he drew his legs underneath himself more comfortably. "He's up to a few minutes at a time now."

"Raph..."

Michelangelo rarely whined. His brothers had beaten the habit out of him during their childhood, willing to put up with many of his eccentricities but not that one. But on rare occasion Michelangelo could sound like the little kid they treated him as, and Raphael didn't have the heart to punch him for it. Not when he felt the same helpless vulnerability.

Setting aside the now empty bowl, Raphael turned on his hands and knees and crept across the third futon toward their sibling. Just about to touch Leonardo's arm, he glanced back at his little brother. They both shared a look, and Michelangelo nodded once. For any number of reasons, big brother didn't need to know that Raphael had stayed out too long.

Raphael gently eased the book out of Leonardo's hand and set it on the floor, then squeezed his brother's arm.

"I'm awake," Leonardo said roughly, letting his head fall back on the sofa arm. "Now, at least."

"Riding in a car ain't the best sleep," Raphael said with a relieved smile. "But dinner's ready. You can crash again after."

"That sounds good." Leonardo blindly felt for the book and, when he couldn't find it, opened his eyes and looked down. "Did you—?"

"Grab your book?" Raphael said. "Yeah, I put it on the floor. It looked old so I didn't want it crumbling apart when you dropped it."

"It's not that old," Leonardo said, fully waking up as he fell into familiar arguments. "I just didn't expect it to knock me out that fast."

"Yeah, who would've expected—" Raphael picked it up and turned it over to see the first page "— _Notes on a most bitter cold campaign in our War of Independence_...holy crap, that's the title? You're right, Leo, that's some riveting literature there. Move over, Dean Koontz."

"Whatever." Leonardo snatched it back, sitting up as their siblings came in. "It's not like we brought that much to read with us. Once I can finally keep my eyes open for a few minutes..."

"Speaking of which," Donatello asked as he sat down on his futon, soup bowl in hand. "You didn't have any odd dreams, did you? Either of you?" he asked, looking at Michelangelo.

With a groan, Michelangelo avoided the question by taking a long drink from the edge of the soup bowl, glaring at his brother over the rim. Blindly fumbling with one hand, he found the edge of his blanket and pulled it closer like a shield.

"Don..." Raphael huffed. "We just got here. Why you gotta start being weird?"

"Excuse you," Donatello said. "I have had the existence of ghosts violently proven to me, and I'd like to keep gathering information. As a control baseline. For the future. In case we have to do that again."

His voice grew smaller and smaller as he spoke, until the last bit was said softly and with eyes askance. All of them paused, staring at the wall or at the floor. The house around them creaked, and in the quiet, they listened to the wind knocking the tips of tree branches against the roof, heard snowflakes flurry across the windows. More and more, they grew aware of the empty space above them, the second floor with its several windows and cramped bathroom and the attic.

"We are never doing that again," Leonardo said, startling them. "If we suspect something's wrong, if one of us even thinks he sees something, then we leave."

They stared at him, questions and demands at their lips—leave and go where? What if was just nightmares? What if it was just paranoia? Were they going to jump at shadows for their rest of their lives?

At his steady look, they let their questions slide, unasked. Though he had never enjoyed another growth spurt like they had, now nearly a full head shorter than Raphael, and though he lay there exhausted and anxious, there remained something ungraspable, still able to keep all three of them in check. If Leonardo said that leaving was the first option, then that was the plan. Better than nightmares every night or being attacked because they ignored their instincts and told themselves that they were being paranoid.

"So..." Donatello murmured, loathe to bring it up again and feeling that he had to. "No bad dreams?"

A little surprised that he'd pushed, Leonardo smiled despite the question. "No. Nothing bad. Anyway, Mikey's the one who—"

"I didn't dream anything," Michelangelo said quick, running over his brother. "Nothing. Just a big, dark nothing."

Nerves, they thought to themselves. They didn't want to be the one who dreamed of bad things in the house. But it left an awkward silence that stretched, and none of them wanted to be the one to start talking, either. Comforting as it was, talking meant remembering that they weren't in their lair anymore, and that the farmhouse, though smaller than the water treatment plant, actually felt larger and thinner, like an eggshell.

"We should all get some sleep," Leonardo said. "Who wants first watch?"

Watch. Though it revealed his nervousness, it also reassured them. They could fall asleep without feeling like they were dropping their guard. A second problem occurred to them. Leonardo likely couldn't yet keep watch on his own, and Michelangelo was just as tired. Raphael had driven all night and partly frozen, which left...

"I will," Donatello volunteered. "But not for long, okay? I can rig up my laptop to chime if I don't touch it every few minutes, but I'm not gonna last much longer, either."

"Go ahead and sleep first," Raphael assured him. "A couple hours. Then I can switch with you. I'm too wired after that run to sleep anyway."

"You sure?" Donatello asked, smiling when Raphael nodded. "Great. I'll be good after a long nap, promise."

"Well," Michelangelo said, collecting their dishes into a pile. "Then Raph, you can clean up in here. I think we're all gonna sleep, right—?"

Michelangelo paused, then laughed lowly when he saw Leonardo had already fallen asleep again. Pulling one of the blankets, he tossed it over his brother, making sure he was completely covered.

"Looks like he beat you to it," Raphael said. He took the dishes to the kitchen and decided to leave them there for his little brother to clean in the morning.

When he came back, he found Donatello and Michelangelo fast asleep, the latter already stretched across two futons. Raphael tugged the blankets a few inches to make sure they were both warm, then stood up and looked around the room.

The problem with watching over everyone was that he needed to stay alert even though the job was mindlessly boring. He had nothing to listen to except the wind and snow and his siblings' light breathing, so—even knowing that Leonardo had examined the house—Raphael did his own circuit through the rooms, turning every doorknob to make sure they locked, testing every window to make sure they didn't slide up. The weak window upstairs he secured by jamming it shut by brute force. It may never open again, but that meant nothing would come in quietly. It would have to break the glass first.

It? He hadn't seen a hint of anything scary. He cursed himself for cowardice and went back downstairs.

Satisfied that the house was secure, Raphael took up a lonely post by the kitchen window. From there, he could turn his head and see his brothers safely asleep, but he could keep a fitful watch on the forest that stood only twenty feet from the door. His hand hovered over the kitchen light switch, and he considered leaving it on for the whole night.

Grumbling at himself, he turned it off. The house grew almost completely dark, lit only by the fire burning in the hearth. Now Raphael could better see the trees, the swirling snow. He told himself that he had been suffering from cold and sleep deprivation before. He hadn't seen anything in the forest. It was just a trick of the light and all the slender trees so close together.

If his brothers had asked him right then what he was looking for, he would have laughed and said a movie slasher villain coming out of the woods. But it would have been an anxious laugh. The longer he looked, the more inevitable it felt. If there was anything in the forest, though, it would have been impossible to spot. The moon lit only the white flurries and icicles on branches and the roof, as well as the vast expanse of virgin snow, completely untouched.


	4. Shopping Trip

Raphael turned on his side, coughing faintly, and he burrowed into his pillow still half asleep. Then the fit grew stronger, the coughs kicking his chest until he woke fully with one hand already pressed over his gritted teeth. As he sat straight, he curled over himself and rocked as each cough grew stronger the more he fought to hush the sound.

"Might as well give in," Donatello muttered beside him. "I think we're all awake. Dragon coughs like that're hard to miss."

Raphael groaned and hunched up, flinching as someone turned on a lamp. Now that he was wide awake, he felt how far his cough had already progressed. His throat ached as if he'd swallowed a ball of pins and his head felt stuffed with hot rocks. A hand touched his forehead.

"No fever," Donatello called over his shoulder. "On either of them."

"'Them'?" Raphael glanced around for Leonardo, but the oldest was on his feet in the kitchen. Raphael looked over at Donatello, who looked fine as well. That left...

"What?" Raphael blinked as he finally saw Michelangelo curled on his side and hugging a pillow tight. He turned and put his arm out, touching his brother's shoulder. "Buddy...what's wrong? Did I give you this?"

Michelangelo muttered something under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing his face into the pillow. His shoulders hunched and he hissed as the blanket slipped off to one side, revealing skin in the cool air.

"I don't think so," Donatello said as he pulled the blanket back over their little brother. "We don't incubate colds that fast. Frankly, I think it's from taking a swim in the river's run-off. Who knows what bacteria and germs he swallowed?"

"I didn't go swimming," Raphael rasped, wincing at how the corners of the words scraped his throat.

"You went out in the snow," Leonardo said as if that explained everything, coming in from the kitchen with two cups of hot water, tea bag strings dangling on the side.

Donatello nodded at Raphael. "You sound like you went running around in a snowstorm. Don't worry. I brought some stuff out of the medicine cabinet before we left—it should take care of you both while we get more."

"Raph," Leonardo said, setting the tea on the floor by Raphael. "Stay awake if you can. Set an alarm if you have to—"

"Whoa, you mean you're going out now?" Raphael said, grabbing Leonardo's wrist. "Where?"

"Corner store," Donatello said. He patted Michelangelo's shoulder, then stood and retrieved his duffel bag from the kitchen, checking the locked door once for good measure. "We need pain meds. And cold meds. And...well, supplies in general. That's the last of the tea."

Raphael reluctantly sat back against the couch, glaring at his brother. "You can't stay awake five minutes."

"I can if I'm moving," Leonardo said, the edge in his voice warning Raphael not to argue. "And I'm not letting Donatello go by himself."

"Then Mikey..." his voice trailed off and he glanced over.

His little brother watched him from over the pillow, squeezing it as he gave a tight shake of his head, and his eyes shut as he burrowed under the blanket. Raphael sighed. Michelangelo wasn't going anywhere. Neither of them were. He took up the tea, and the thin sip felt like a fist sliding down his throat.

Raphael glanced at the window, the snow flurries hitting the glass. Was it just him, or was the sky just a shade lighter? He gave Leonardo a look, raising an eyeridge.

"It's still dark," Leonardo said. "And it's just a quick trip to the corner store. We'll be back before sun up."

Raphael grimaced, but he nodded and pulled the pillow onto his lap, hugging it close. He wouldn't be going back to sleep. As his siblings left, closing the door behind them, he listened for the click of the lock, the metallic rattle as Leonardo made sure the lock was in place. It reassured Raphael a little, and he settled against the couch to watch the fire.

Outside felt like knives in ice water as Leonardo and Donatello made a quick rush to the van. The cabin light came on, giving them a few seconds to buckle in and start the engine before the overhead glow faded, leaving only the dashboard lights flickering green and the headlights briefly illuminating the front of the house.

Leonardo set his hand on the door handle, gripping it, staring at the door.

"They'll be okay," Donatello said, putting the car in reverse. "It won't even take an hour."

"Right..."

Gravel crunched under the tires, and then they were rolling out onto the road, carefully following the fence posts that passed in and out of the darkness. The fence, gray trees, the salted road and snowflakes crushed against the windshield...Donatello adjusted the rear view mirror and sighed.

"Looks like red snow behind us," he said, shaking his head once. "I hate driving at night, but this is just nuts."

"'s eerie as hell," Leonardo said, eyes shut. "Do me a favor, turn on the radio?"

"Sure," Donatello chuckled, dialing up a low scratch of a religious station. "You flagging?"

"Kinda." Leonardo shook his head hard. "I usually just open a window if I'm trying to stay awake."

"Yeah, thank you, don't," Donatello chuckled. "Surprised the cold doesn't keep you awake. Bad enough the heater takes forever to warm up."

"The store is close by, right?" Leonardo said, shifting in his seat. "I didn't remember that wrong?"

"No, it's close," Donatello nodded. "Even by farm standards. But it's almost four...I'm just hoping the owner doesn't keep farm hours."

A moment passed. If they didn't hit the store now, they'd have to go a full day without anything for their siblings. And if they had to rush through the supply run, they risked forgetting something or, worse, leaving something askew that clued the owner in on the theft. They didn't want to draw any attention to the normally vacant Jones farmhouse.

"Did you get any sleep?" Leonardo asked, shifting again.

His head swam. If only he could lay back on the headrest...but if he fell asleep now, it'd only be worse when he woke up again. Maybe he should turn off the radio? The voice muddled in static was only making it worse.

"Yeah, I slept some," Donatello said. "Raph woke me after his watch, and I don't think he was in bed more'n a few minutes before he started coughing. Little at first, but man, it sure did ramp up."

Unspoken worries filled the space between them. Was it really just a cold? More than a flu? If it was something worse, they had no way to fight it. Living in the New York cisterns left them with a constant fear of infection and bacteria, and Michelangelo had to have swallowed some of that water.

Their headlights flashed onto an intersection and a rusted street sign reading McKenzie. Donatello turned right, and after another few minutes, they spotted the gold outdoor light against the edge of the general store, the sign Hochfeld Market weathered to faint outlines and splotches of paint on grey wood. Its windows were dark and the dirt parking lot in front of it empty.

"Cut the lights," Leonardo said, sitting straight. "Try to stay on the gravel."

Donatello nodded, slowing their speed and squinting to make out the road in the gloom. The van cut lines in the fresh snow, but on the gravel beside the store, their tire tracks weren't so obvious. If the snow kept up for the rest of the night, even those marks would fade. He brought them around the back, stones crunching under the tires, and he left the engine idling with the heater on full blast.

"Okay," Donatello said. "You get the food, I'll get the meds and everything else?"

Leonardo nodded. "Five minutes. I don't wanna be in there longer than ten."

"Got it."

Both of them took a deep breath, then at the same time stepped out into the snow. Frozen wind blew flurries of snow against their shells, but the van provided some cover while Leonardo knelt beside the building's back door and slid in his lockpicks.

Donatello came up behind him, sheltering him from the wind, but even so, his hands went numb almost immediately. Without feeling the tumblers, Leonardo relied more on previous break-ins to gently nudge the metal into place. To his relief, the owner had never replaced the lock with something stronger, and in a minute, they were inside.

Even before closing the door, they both scanned the store first, making sure they were alone. Weak moonlight came in through the windows, coloring the shelves gray. Wood creaked underfoot, and a refrigerator hummed in the corner. The wind blew against the walls, sending a draft that stirred up dust along the floor.

Neither of them spoke. Leonardo unfurled a sack and began filling it from the baskets of fruit and vegetables in the front, then went to the shelves and picked several cans from the back of each display. He couldn't hide their thievery completely, but if he was careful, he could disguise the fact that the store was missing enough to feed four turtles for a few weeks.

Donatello worked the other side of the store, picking out cold remedies, medicinal teas, cough drops, anything that could ease the symptoms he knew his brothers were suffering. A few boxes were under locked displays, but those were picked easily enough. He cast a longing look at the locked mesh door protecting the pharmaceuticals, but he didn't try for those. The lock was no challenge, but a theft of things on the shelves could be ignored. Stolen prescriptions would bring down far more attention.

Both of them brought their bags to the front register. Four minutes had passed.

"Three sixty," Leonardo whispered, tallying up the cost in a rough estimate.

Donatello winced. "Five ninety."

Almost a thousand dollars of goods. Both of them gave a small sigh. The more expensive the theft, the more likely it was that the police would be called. Not that anyone would be able to find fingerprints, but the Jones house was normally unoccupied. Now that it had lights on at night and a vehicle in the driveway, police or neighbors might make a connection.

"Medicines always cost so much more," Donatello grumbled, reaching into one of his bags. "If I leave the—"

"No. Take it all." Leonardo reached into a pouch on his belt, visibly counted a few flicks of his fingers, and then lay down several hundred dollar bills. "I had a feeling we'd need it."

"Do I even want to know where that came from?" Donatello gave him a look, but he didn't argue and instead set the full amount underneath the register, a small corner sticking out visibly.

"You have your talents," Leonardo said, shouldering his bag. "I have mine."

"Mine aren't felonies," Donatello muttered. When Leonardo glanced at him, Donatello shrugged once. "Just misdemeanors."

"Yeah," Leonardo chuckled, and he motioned him to the door. "Like that'll matter if we're ever caught."

He stiffened as they stepped back into the winter wind, cursing under his breath and locking the door again as Donatello moved past. They had to waste several seconds stowing the supplies in the back of the van, and Leonardo felt this second exposure to the cold seeping straight through his shell. To hell with wasting seconds going around the van. He crept up over the bags to close the doors from inside, and instead of coming over the backseat, he curled up against the wheel well.

In the front, another cold draft whipped through as Donatello climbed in. The doors automatically locked around them, and then they were rolling across gravel again, turning onto the quieter pavement of the road.

"You still alive?" Donatello asked over his shoulder. "I got the heat up at full blast."

"I'm good," Leonardo called back, but his voice failed halfway and he coughed, closing his eyes. "Dammit."

"Don't tell me you're getting sick," Donatello said, his voice serious.

"No," Leonardo waved him down. "Just same thing that's been hitting me since we left the lair."

"Bad karma?" Donatello angled the rear view mirror to better see him. "That excuse's starting to wear thin."

Leonardo opened his mouth to argue that it wasn't an excuse, then tilted his head and shrugged once. "Wake me up when we get back. I'll try something later, see if it works."

As his older brother fell asleep once again, Donatello's mouth pressed to a tight line. 'Try something later' probably meant some spiritual hokum again. He readjusted the mirror to see an endless dark grey sky with red flurries of snow across his tail lights. No one else dumb or desperate enough to be on the road, leaving him alone to think.

Hokum or not, he had to admit that ghosts were real. He and his brothers had killed...killed? He grimaced. How could he say they'd killed a ghost? They'd flushed all the bodies clean through—maybe they'd only passed the spirits on.

He cursed himself. 'Passing them on...' As if. Just listen to him, brainiac of the family reduced to speculating on whether ghosts remained with their bodies. This was why he didn't like indulging in nonsense about the spirit world. He'd dabbled with it during his younger years, but the lack of empirical data, no concrete evidence, had left him tearing pages out of books in sheer frustration.

And now he still had no real proof of spirits. Nothing had been recorded. All they had were some scraps of soggy paper and black streaks of dirty water around the lair. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have demanded they wait while he examined the wiring, checked for the real reason for their shared delusion of spirits. They would still be safely at home...

His hands tightened so much that the steering wheel creaked.

The thought of being in the lair even one moment chilled him worse than the snowstorm.

He made himself exhale, forced himself to relax and sit normally. Personal experience was data, wasn't it? He could write down every memory, record Michelangelo's dream and the strange shapes slithering through the river. A log wasn't as good as a photo or video, or even an audio recording, but he could then pick it apart and find something solid out of it. Even if only to stamp "inconclusive" on the cover and file it away, never to be opened again.

He didn't want to remember watching specters of the dead creeping toward him while he could do nothing but hold Raphael and look away.

That was Leonardo's world, ghosts and spirits and karma. It wasn't fair, but Donatello didn't like how it had begun spilling into his own neatly ordered world. Tools, parts and chemicals could be labelled and organized and put together to make predictable mechanisms. Spirits and karma...

Another car on the road. Donatello started to lean back but their headlights were over him and away again in a flash, and when he looked back in his rear view, the car was already halfway down the road. He grimaced. He was driving as fast as he dared but whoever was in that car was just begging to skid off the road.

The sky was just two shades paler than night as he pulled up to the farm house. They'd cut their thieving too close—people might already be waking up. Deciding to play it safe, Donatello drove onto the dirt and came behind the house, parking between the kitchen door and the trees. At least the van wouldn't be visible from the street.

As he left the warmth of the van, he found Leonardo already opening the back, yawning as he gathered up a handful of bags. Donatello grabbed the rest, turning toward the house while his brother locked the rear.

"Oh wow." Leonardo paused despite the snow. "Deer tracks."

Donatello glanced over his shoulder. A row of hoof prints ran through the snow drift, coming past the barn and in front of the kitchen, then going back into the trees.

"They must be hungry," Donatello said. "There's only bark for them to eat right now."

Donatello stared off into the forest. The tracks were fresh. The snow was only just beginning to cover them. He felt a little twinge that he hadn't been able to see them. Deer would have reassured him that they weren't the only life in the middle of the storm.

The kitchen door swung open, spilling a beam of light across the snow.

"Come on, brainiac!" Raphael called, his voice scratching over the wind. "'Fore you get sick, too."

"Yeah, yeah."

Donatello followed Leonardo in, handing the bags to Raphael and sighing in relief as the weight left his hands. He closed the door behind himself, and for a moment he stared out the window. The hoof prints, already half vanished, went up the treeline and disappeared into the darkness.

Only a the first row of trees were visible, bone white and skeletal. How on earth did anything live out there on a night like this? Logically he knew all the woodland creatures had their dens, but he couldn't imagine huddling up in a dark burrow against this cold.

Shuddering in sympathy, he gave the doorknob a short twist to make sure it was locked. No human would possibly try to break in during this weather, but he would sleep better knowing that they were safely in and the winter was kept out.


	5. Reading the Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids

A flurry of opening plastic bags, cellophane seals broken off of pill bottles and paper tea bags torn open-Donatello checked the dosages and increased them for Michelangelo, doubling them for Raphael. Four pain killers cured a bad headache, but body aches and a sore throat meant six, even eight pills, an overdose for a human but just right for a mutant turtle.

Beside him, the kettle thunked heavily on the stovetop as the range clicked on. Donatello glanced at Leonardo, who'd already brought out the honey and was fumbling in the cabinet for cups. The open flame of the stove flickered only inches away from Leonardo's his hands, and Donatello paused, not sure if he should press, but his brother answered before he could start.

"Don't worry," Leonardo mumbled. "I can make tea in my sleep."

"I'm just wondering how literal that is right now," Donatello said and nudged him a few inches to the side.

Leonardo gave him a look, but he didn't argue. "I know. I'll deal with it. I just need an hour or so."

Then why haven't you already done it? Donatello thought, but from the other room, his brothers were coughing and curling up closer to the fire. Taking care of them was more important than scolding his big brother. Donatello took the cough medicine in hand with a ring of plastic measuring cups. A quarter cup was a lot easier going down in one go than in four or five cap-fulls.

"Try not to scald yourself," Donatello said over his shoulder. "And make sure you add a lot of honey."

"...I know."

Since hovering would only aggravate Leonardo, Donatello went and sat down with Raphael and Michelangelo, giving them their pills and tolerating their complaints about the taste.

"Tea's on its way," Donatello said. "Just wait."

Leonardo rooted through the bags he'd stolen, feeling blindly and increasingly irritated with his brothers. He himself took his tea without anything, but Donatello required milk or cream, and Michelangelo and Raphael had to have at least half a cup of honey or sugar to keep them from whining. He'd been lucky that Raphael had been too distracted to notice before when they left to do their stealing, but now after cough syrup, he knew Raphael would insist.

While waiting on the kettle, Leonardo leaned against the counter and lay his head down, telling himself that he couldn't let himself fall asleep. If he fell asleep now, he'd end up on the floor in a ridiculous heap. That the floor sounded acceptable told him how bad off he was.

Where was this exhaustion coming from? They'd expelled the ghosts. If nothing else, the bad karma should have gone with the bodies cleaned away by the river. From the games and movies and books he'd read, karma clung to people and didn't let go, a long record of all their deeds and thoughts. But from what he'd seen in the last week, karma worked not like bureaucratic paperwork but like smoke, laying heaviest on the sinner but also settling on anyone around them, a fog that left a layer of darkness on anyone nearby that was hard to wash off again.

The kettle whistled. He poured each cup carefully, overly deliberate as he blinked away sleep, and brought it all out on a tray, relieved when he set it on the living room floor without spilling or tripping.

Michelangelo mouthed his thanks, not wanting to speak and strain his throat, and he gathered his tea up in his hands, taking some comfort from the heat. With his eyes shut, he leaned against Raphael, breathing in the steam. Raphael put his arm around him, wincing as he sipped down his own scalding hot tea to warm himself from the inside.

"You look as bad as I feel," Raphael whispered to his older brother. "Might as well get some more sleep."

Leonardo shook his head. "If sleep helped, I wouldn't need any more. I'll be in the other room. Hopefully I can kick this today."

Raising an eyeridge, Raphael didn't argue.

Settling on the couch to better see the pill bottle's directions in the lamplight, Donatello spared a quick glance at his brother.

"More mysticism?" he asked. "Should I have a pot of coffee on in case it doesn't work?"

Leonardo shrugged, rubbing his eyes as he passed them. "Technically I'm doing nothing. Just offering some light."

Donatello looked at him for a moment, then huffed and went back to reading the pill bottle.

Although the second floor would have been more ideal for meditation, Leonardo instead chose the side room and even left the door cracked so as to better hear his brothers. Upstairs he would have been aware of the snow hitting the window panes, the thin glass holding back the winter. Upstairs he would have been alone in barren room.

Here, settling on the dust-covered rug with only the thin ray of light from the door, he heard his brothers murmur, heard Donatello rustling with something in the closet, heard Michelangelo finally subside into soft, even breathing.

Leonardo closed his eyes. Clearing his thoughts did not come easily-his intent was too obvious in his own thoughts, as was the reason for being in here. The memories of the last few days were impossible to put out of mind. The hands of ghosts on his shoulders and mask, the dark lines of ichor dripping on the walls, running along the floors...

From the other room came Donatello's voice. "'Stead of sitting around...he could've 'least helped me...get these wires set up...but nooo, he has to go be Obi-Wan..."

Leonardo smiled despite himself. The memories of ghosts faded, and he replaced them with the image of a candle. In his mind's eye, he lit the wick, imagining the flame's flicker. Holding that image as clear as he could, trying to visualize the wax melting down the side and the thin line of smoke, he set it down in the darkness as an offering.

With the first candle still in his thoughts, he set about creating a second. And a third, slowly adding to the glow brightening before him.

And a fourth...

And a fifth...

His mind emptied, focused solely on each new candle. The universe spread out around him, full not of stars but of nothingness, a vast empty void that was not dark, unbroken even by the candles he slowly offered. This was not the emptiness of the attic upstairs. This was a lack of pain, a lack of fear and a lack of sadness. Weight slipped off of him, pressure slipped off of him, and for the first time in several days, he breathed deep and clear and even.

Another candle. Another. Another. Each flame became part of a larger light pushing away darkness, a fitting symbol of enlightenment itself that pushed away all evils. The offering was nothing more than thought, and yet the light grew stronger and warmer.

For a moment he paused, looking over the mass he had created. How long had he been sitting here? There were so many around him. So enamored of the feeling, he began creating yet one more.

"That is enough, my son."

Like smoke blown out, the candles vanished. Leonardo tensed, eyes widening, facing the faded gray wallpaper and peeling wood of the farmhouse. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was behind him, but after hearing that voice...if he turned, would he see-?

"Geez," Donatello exhaled in a rush. "Scare a guy, why don'cha? One minute you're out like a light, the next minute bam, wide awake."

Leonardo likewise breathed out, coming to his feet and brushing dust off his shell. "Sorry. Just got startled."

"I noticed." Donatello tilted his head. "You seem better, though. Whatever you did, I guess it worked."

"Well, I'm not one hundred percent, but..." Leonardo stood straight, tired but feeling like he'd had a few cups of coffee. "Yeah. Feel like I got rid of something bad-"

Donatello put his hand on Leonardo's shoulder, cutting him off. Their eyes met, and Leonardo broke first, glancing to the side.

"What happened?" Donatello asked. "You got that look."

At first Leonardo didn't answer. No one liked hearing him wax 'mystical' as Donatello sometimes put it, spooky as Raphael liked to say. Only Michelangelo didn't make fun of him for sometimes mentioning Buddhist tenets with a straight face, but then Michelangelo would probably accept him saying their favorite cartoon characters had come out of the television to join them on an adventure.

But all of them knew what he looked like hiding something and Donatello wasn't about to tolerate any secrets, not with a new belief in ghosts,. He squeezed Leonardo's shoulder, accepting and prompting at the same time.

"Nothing bad," Leonardo said. "Just...I thought I heard Splinter say 'enough'."

Donatello's mouth parted slightly, but he didn't reply. In the awkward silence, the radio chattered like tin in the other room.

"That's all." Leonardo looked away again, not sure what else to say.

After a moment, Donatello half-chuckled and let his hand fall. "See, you really do meditate too much if he's gotta come back to tell you to stop."

Leonardo laughed once with him, relieved. "I guess it's just good knowing..."

He couldn't finish the thought, but he didn't have to. Donatello nodded once. He may not have believed Splinter's ghost was still keeping an eye on them, but he could understand wanting to believe.

"Yeah."

When they came back into the living room, dinner had been served. The windows had turned pale gold with the sunset. While Donatello went back into the kitchen, Leonardo blinked, surprised that so much time had passed, and he sat down on the outermost futon, leaning back against the couch. A small pocket radio sat by their feet, its antenna fully extended and catching only a few snatches of words and hard consonants as it hissed static.

"Huh," Raphael said between scooping rice from a bowl. "You look kinda awake finally. What'd you do?"

"Nothing," Leonardo said, picking up his own dish.

"No, really," Raphael said. "Every time I looked in on you-man, you were totally out in space."

"Kinda?" Leonardo shrugged and ate. "I just offered a bunch of candles in the dark."

Raphael gave him a long look, not sure if he believed that or not. They didn't even have any candles with them. Mental candles? This was more of that Buddhism stuff, wasn't it? That meant those candles were offerings, and offerings meant spirits. He huffed and returned to finishing his rice. "Spooky shit."

On the other side of Raphael, Michelangelo cradled his bowl of chicken soup in his hands, taking more comfort from the warmth than from the soup itself. Their little brother grimaced as he took tiny sips, sniffling as his breathing cleared only a little.

"Did he get any sleep?" Leonardo asked.

"Some."

The radio static whined and became a brief smattering of nonsensical words _-now she finds that the demographics of the states with the demand side of the equation-_ that faded again into nothing, the signal as snowy as the weather. Raphael leaned forward and tapped it hard. "The background noise outta this helped, but it's started to annoy the crap outta me."

"Did we bring that?" Leonardo wondered.

"Nope." Donatello turned off the light from the kitchen and joined them, plopping down sideways on the armchair. "Found it in the kitchen. I wouldn't be caught with something that primitive, but the snow's playing hell with my internet. I can't get a connection for more than a minute out here."

"It can't snow forever," Raphael said. "It'll let up eventually."

"If I could get online," Donatello said, staring at the laptop in the corner, "I could tell us when."

No one replied. What help could they offer? They hadn't brought a tv and Michelangelo's handheld had used up all its batteries hours ago. Deprived of any entertainment, they watched the flames in the fireplace, occasionally tossing in bits of wood. Sparks flew up with the smoke, hot red against dark grey, accompanied by a pleasing scent of burnt pine. Raphael spread out the blankets so they could all bundle up, a small circle of warmth against the darkness behind them and the snow piling on the windows.

Michelangelo leaned against Raphael, using him as a giant pillow. "Think we'll get snowed in?"

"If we do," Raphael said, "we got enough supplies to last it out."

_-with time growing short and not everyone optimistic about the EU's chances-_

"Okay, that's it," Raphael grumbled, scooting down so he could smack the radio's power button. "If I gotta listen to that thing fritzing out any more, it's going out the window."

"Please don't," Donatello said, eyes shut, refusing to move. "I can't fix any broken windows."

"There's duct tape in the van," Raphael pointed out, but he obligingly didn't toss the radio. "Whatever. It stays off until the damn blizzard stops."

"The fire's enough of a background noise anyway," Leonardo said. "It's actually pretty nice."

Michelangelo made a small noise of agreement, whimpering as his throat ached and taking another cough drop from the bag beside him. Raphael reached around him for his own handful, unwrapping each one and tossing the wrappers into the fire. The bits of paper flashed and melted and sent up a tiny plume of black smoke before vanishing altogether.

Each of them felt a pull, a need to do something beyond stare at the fire. If they were home, they would have picked up a book, a comic, started a monster movie marathon. Donatello would have shushed Michelangelo over a cup of coffee while Leonardo and Raphael sparred, sometimes with friendly banter, sometimes with cutting barbs. To sit still like this made them acutely aware of how still the room was, how quiet they were, the fireplace their small light in the emptiness.

"You realize," Michelangelo sighed, his voice more of a croak, "that we'll never be able to tell ghost stories again?"

All of them stared at the flames, then groaned in unison.

"Okay," Raphael said, "that does kinda suck."

"Not like those ever scared me anyway," Donatello said. "I didn't buy that ghosts existed before."

"Sucks being sick without a tv," Michelangelo said, and as he spoke, his hand idly nudged one of the books beside the couch. He picked it up, glanced at the cover, then tossed it to his big brother with no warning. "Storytime."

Raphael startling back an inch was his only warning, and Leonardo caught the book just before it could hit his shoulder. Throwing his brother a token glare, he took a little satisfaction in how Raphael smacked the back of Michelangelo's head.

"You sure? I don't think you wanna hear this," Leonardo said, flipping the cover open. "It's some girl's diary from ages ago."

"Cool," Michelangelo smiled, coughing once. "Chick gossip."

"It's the only game in town," Raphael muttered as he settled in. "Go ahead. I don't care about some chick's farming or whatever. Just read soft and maybe I can get to sleep."

Leonardo glanced at him sideways, trying not to be obvious about it, and he spotted the dark lines under his brother's eyes. Raphael had such a hard time sleeping if he was sick. A broken bone and no pain killers? After awhile he'd pass out from exhaustion. But the irritations of a sore throat, body aches and coughing left him too fidgety to nod off.

As Michelangelo lay down, head on his pillow, Raphael curled up behind him, listening to his little brother's breathing as yet another dose of cough medicine began to work. Leonardo watched them for a moment, noting how Raphael shifted and worked against his pillow to find a comfortable spot.

"Go ahead," Donatello said, scooting down in the chair and tucking his chin on his chest. "Taking care of these two crybabies kinda got me wired. You take first watch and I'll take second?"

"Sounds good," Leonardo nodded, pleased that he felt like he _could_ stay up. Looking back at the book, reading more to put them to sleep than paying any attention to the words, he began.

"'September third, 1792, on Ms. Mayfield's arrival in New York for her birthday to keep account of all her doings there, this diary from her aunt Dorothy Mayfield'."

"Huh..." Donatello murmured. "Pretty sure Casey's mom's maiden name was Mayfield."

Michelangelo yawned. "So it was his grandma?"

"At that year?" Raphael said. "More like great great grandma."

Leonardo turned the page and found a printed calendar of the year, several dates in December circled boldly, and on the next page found a picture of a man looking through a telescope and several more printed text.

"'There will be four eclipses this year'," he read. "'Two lunar and two solar.' Wow, so it's like an almanac inside."

"She just wrote down the weather?" Donatello asked.

"Nah, came with the book," Leonardo said, and he flipped ahead several pages. "Lot of moon phases, some percentages, some bible quotes...here we go. 'Tuesday. Arrived this afternoon at two, both Marley and Jacob greeted me at the train station. Cousins quite grown. Spent most of the time in town visiting with them at Hochfeld soda shop, waiting for carriage, then hour to the farm. Sunshine already feels like it has done worlds of good.'

"'Met Edward Jones, the farm hand. New York boys much more forward than Ohio'."

Leonardo raised an eyeridge at that. The Jones tendency to confident flirting was apparently genetic. He wondered why his siblings hadn't said anything, then realized that Michelangelo and Raphael were breathing deeply, and Donatello, though he scratched a small itch half-asleep, was quickly on his way to resting properly. Smiling, Leonardo kept reading at a softer pitch.

"Wednesday. Found uncle's library. Dust aggravates, so often I am reading in the orchard. Apples coming into full harvest now. Wild blackberries as well. The first fall storms also arrived, but Edward says the winter snow won't come for another two months. Promised to help me spot deer.'

'Saturday. So many trees in neat rows. Trees start to blur together and look like they move. Have gone to doctor in town for overly strong daydreams. Prescribed rest cure. Horrid rest cure. At least diary allowed, but Edward snuck me a penny dreadful through my window to while the time.'

'Sunday. Have put Edward's book by for the time. Lurid story about walking skeletons and murder, daydreamed I could hear them crack and scream. Resolved to be more faithful to rest cure'."

Finally Donatello had fallen asleep. Leonardo got up to put another handful of wood on the fire, then sat back and continued reading silently. It was't the most thrilling reading, but it kept him awake and kept his mind off of the wind blowing against the window glass.

He wondered if the little horror book she mentioned was somewhere in the attic. With nothing else to read, it might be worth braving the attic again to find it.


	6. Blood on the Snow

The days froze over, blurring as one, two, three days passed in snowfall. Ice gathered on the windowsills so that the daylight, already weak, turned gray and pale. Faint radio signals drifted in and out, their only link to the outside world, and they kept it tuned on the strongest station, a local public broadcast that alternated between news, classical music and old mystery shows. No one listened, but its rise and fall of distant voices filled an otherwise quiet house.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner broke up the monotony, and each time Donatello cracked open a can or package, he thanked their luck that Leonardo had insisted on their full haul from the shop. They could last a few weeks on what they'd taken and, even after his brothers had burned through half the medicine they'd lifted, Donatello still didn't feel like he needed to ration their pain killers or pills.

Static scratched and faded as the radio found the signal again. "-the storm has claimed three more lives, with the hardest hit in the northern counties as local roads are nearly completely impassable. The Red Cross is currently organizing relief efforts but authorities caution drivers to remain off the roads and phone paramedics in the case of emergencies."

As if to punctuate the radio broadcast, a lonely police siren wailed in the distance, inching closer as the cruiser crept along the road. Even at its slow speed, its rear wheels skidded on the ice patches and brought the wheels drifting close to the edge. Donatello pulled back the kitchen curtain, watching the cruiser slip off the road and crunch on the gravel, finally finding traction and getting back on the road.

"Tempting fate?" Raphael said, leaning past him and tugging the curtain closed again.

"No one's looking at us," Donatello said. "They're too busy trying not to spin out."

"Yeah, lousy view anyway." Raphael turned his back to the window, leaning on the counter and then leaning sideways against Donatello, yawning as he lay his head on his brother's shoulder. "It ain't even stopped snowing yet."

"Not for another day or two," Donatello said, grunting under Raphael's weight and shoving his shoulder back. "Y'know, it's hard to make lunch when you're on top of me."

"Deal with it," Raphael muttered, hardly budging. "All this 'doing nothing' is making me dead tired."

"So listen to the radio."

"That's lame."

"Make a snowman."

"Funny."

"Read something."

"As if." Raphael snorted. "All we got are what Leo found upstairs, and those're boring as hell."

"I can't believe we didn't bring any games or...geez, anything." Donatello sighed as he sliced up apples, preparing to add them to a small pile of sandwiches. "It wouldn't be so bad if I could get a damn wifi signal."

"Pretty sure no one's getting a signal nearby," Raphael said. "You don't have any games on your laptop, huh?"

Donatello shrugged hard, trying to nudge his brother off. "Sorry-chucked 'em out with the bloatware."

"Whatever that is," Raphael said. Yawning hard, he stood straight and glanced over his shoulder, watching the snow fall. "...hey. When the snow stops, how long do you figure we'll stay here?"

Donatello paused, biting his lip. Slowly he started on the apples again. "I dunno. Would we be going somewhere else, or...?"

"No clue." Raphael took a long breath, holding it, then exhaled. "I asked Mikey, but he don't know what he wants to do."

"And Leo?"

"Ain't asked him yet, but I don't think he knows, either." Raphael shrugged. "To be honest, I think he's waiting on us."

"To make up our minds?"

"Hell if I know." He sighed and swiped two sandwiches away from Donatello, ignoring his squawk and how he rushed the apples onto the plate haphazardly. "I'll take Leo's plate up to him, see if he's thought any further ahead than 'oh no, ghosts-run'."

"...why should he?" Donatello took the last sandwich and the bowl of soup meant for Michelangelo, walking out with his brother. "No one else did."

"But how come?" Hesitating at the door, Raphael glanced at his brother. "We've fought spooky shit before. How come this time we ran?"

"Y'know, I got other things to worry about." Donatello tilted his head at the window. "I need to keep the pipes from freezing, keep the water heater going, and check on the wiring. That's what I'm going to think about."

"Don-" Raphael whined, turning so he could give him a dry look. "Don't do this."

"There's a blizzard outside," Donatello said, not caring that he was snapping. "You can focus on ghosts if you want."

Donatello pushed by him, letting the door fall back on Raphael's foot before he could move out of the way.

While Raphael grumbled and slid out of the kitchen, Donatello knelt down next to Michelangelo. Their little brother hadn't moved from the futon except to take a shower, then crawling back into the blankets like a bear in hibernation. And he growled like one as Donatello set the meal down and nudged the lump in the middle of the pile of bedding.

"Not in the mood to beg you to eat," Donatello warned him. "You wanna keep getting better? Eat it while it's still hot. It'll just hurt more going down cold."

With an indistinct noise somewhere under the blankets, Michelangelo shifted and turned. The side of the blanket lifted, revealing a flashlight and a notebook, and then a hand slipped out, grabbed the edge of the plate and pulled the whole dish under the covers. This, followed by a more recognizable murmur.

"You're welcome," Donatello said, patting Michelangelo's shell through the cloth as he stood.

He brought his own lunch with him along with his tools, heading upstairs to the bathroom. With all the snow piling up, he had to make sure the plumbing wasn't one step away from failure, and as usual, he'd be working with a sandwich in one hand and a screwdriver in the other.

Donatello opened the sink, pulling out the dusty bucket and spare parts that he didn't recognize. Then he lay down on his shell and eased in, flashlight held in his mouth as he looked up at the pipes. As expected, the rubber gaskets looked old and close to cracking apart, and if this was what the sink looked like, he'd be taking the bath faucets apart, too.

The stairs creaked with Raphael's telltale weight. With the floorboards so old, even ninja had a hard time walking quietly and usually didn't even try. Just another reason not to sleep upstairs, nevermind how the wind blew much louder against the windows up here. The second floor was just a large room with a bath and access to the attic, and the wide space allowed for a distinct moan across the glass, the persistent tapping of snow at the sill.

In the other room, the conversation began in quiet tones, and Donatello caught fragments of it as he worked. Wrenching the PVC bend free, he began loosening the lock nuts and setting everything aside in the bowl. With such a mindless task, listening to his brothers gave him something to focus on.

"Yo! Leo, chow time." A pause. "Or are you lost on the astroplane highway?"

"Astral plane," Leonardo corrected. "But no, just meditating again."

"More spooky shit?"

"...offering candles and light, yeah."

"More spooky shit."

A clatter as Raphael set the plates down, both of them audibly eating on the floor.

"-so how long we staying this time?" Raphael asked. "And where we going after?"

Donatello paused, listening intently. His older brother tended to speak a little softer than Raphael. Donatello gave a token turn of his wrench in case they noticed he'd stopped.

"I don't know," Leonardo said. "Not yet...I know we can't stay here forever, but it feels like-like when you get hit really hard and it puts you on the ground. You have to take a minute to catch yourself."

"And we're catching ourselves?" Raphael huffed. "I don't get it. I asked Donny, but he ain't talking. Mikey _can't_ talk. So I'm asking you. What's the deal? Why'd we run?"

A long pause. Donatello's hand began to cramp but he didn't move.

"I think..." Leonardo sighed. "Look, I'm not completely sure-it's just a thought..."

Raphael didn't say anything but he did sigh loudly. Donatello was sure his biggest brother was turning his finger in the air to signal Leonardo to hurry it up.

"We're on our own." Despite his protest, Leonardo didn't sound unsure at all. He said it matter of factly, as if it were the steps to a kata. "Master Splinter isn't here to help us or say it's okay."

"That can't-" Raphael started to scoff.

"Do you want to go back there?" Leonardo demanded. "Where the lights turn off and you're not alone in an empty room? Where the emptiness itself was grabbing you?"

"...shit, Leo. That..."

"No one wants to go back because he's gone. It wasn't the ghosts." Leonardo coughed, sounding like he'd caught a little of Michelangelo's cold. "Or maybe it was the wrong ghost."

"Whoa...that kinda-"

"It isn't fair," Leonardo muttered. "All those spirits, but he can't be bothered to show up for five minutes?"

"Don't think ghosts work like that," Raphael said. A pause. "You're saying it's the emptiness. Not the ghosts."

"Admit it, Raph. If he was there and said that it was okay, that the lair was clear and safe, then we could all go back without any problems. But Splinter wasn't there."

Donatello put his wrench down, shoved his tools out of the way and got up and left the bathroom. Not caring about the noise or how his brothers must have been looking, he thudded down the stairs, through the living room toward the kitchen.

"Gotta check the pipes in back," he called out to Michelangelo, not caring if he heard.

Opening the door brought a blast of frost that sucked his breath out, but he steeled himself and went anyway. Snow crunched underfoot and light flakes landed on his face, melting down along his collar. How long did he have before he'd be forced to go back in? He wasn't as big as Raphael. Maybe twenty minutes, longer if he found some shelter from the wind.

Instead of lingering at the back of the house, he walked along the trees toward the barn. During the summer, the distance wasn't so great on foot, but with snowdrifts blown against his legs, he felt each stinging step. Again, he spotted deer tracks in the fresh snow, going from the trees to across the road.

At least the barn blocked some of the wind. He threw the latch on the door and went in, closing it only partway. There was a rustle of feathers in the rafters above, something scurrying against the wall, but the owls and mice stayed out of sight as he went into one of the old horse stalls, leaned against the wood post and sank down. His face burning had nothing to do with the biting cold.

Splinter was gone. How clear it was now that Leonardo had said it. Splinter had filled up any abandoned space with his presence, his authority and warmth turning their various hidey-holes into homes. Donatello had repaired lights, Michelangelo had brought decorations, Leonardo and Raphael did the heavy work of clearing out cluttered spaces...

Like the cluttered mess of old filtration meshes in a rusted water treatment plant. Splinter had only been there a little while before age had caught up to him. Not nearly enough time to cement his presence. Donatello hardly had any memories of him there.

No wonder they couldn't go back. The four them making a home under Splinter's supervision felt like a family, safe and guarded. The four of them making a home on their own felt haphazard, makeshift. Vulnerable.

They'd fought worse, but never without their father's presence behind them.

And having it said so starkly made him feel sick to his stomach. Like he'd lost Splinter all over again.

Long minutes passed. His nausea settled and he felt the burning sensation on his face fade. The barn door knocked against the frame, blown in the wind, and Donatello looked to the left, a little surprised that no one had followed him. Raphael might be willing to give him some space, but Leonardo could be a mother hen, trying to peck them back into their roosts.

Taking a long breath, steadying himself against the wood post, he got back to his feet and looked around. The barn was darker than he remembered, probably because he only came inside during clear days with the door flung wide open. Now only a little grey gloom filtered through the slits in the roof, lines of light showing the dust hovering in the air and nothing more. When something skittered in a far corner, Donatello saw only a hint of the walls and floorboards.

Too much like home-like the place they'd run from, he corrected himself. Time to go back.

Grimacing, he put his arms around himself and looked around completely, holding his breath as he listened. How could the wind sound silent? Swallowing, he slid as quietly as he could toward the door, taking little comfort in how the owls didn't stir from their nest. Animals would react around the paranormal, right?

No ghosts, he told himself. There are no ghosts here.

He was walking swiftly toward the door, increasing his speed the closer he got until he was almost running by the time he slipped out, grabbed the door and threw it shut. He almost broke the latch locking it down again.

With the renewed force of the wind, he felt how hard he was breathing. His brothers would tease him if they saw him. "Not so logical now, huh, egg-head?" But maybe they wouldn't, not with what Leonardo had said. Guess he wasn't dealing with everything as well as he thought he was. No. None of them were.

Still nursing a hollow ache in his chest, he headed back across the snow. Head down, he followed his own footsteps, a little fainter now as the snow fell.

And stopped.

A mass of deer prints-deep, plunging points in the snow-surrounded another set of footprints, like his own but larger. The snow furrowed and scraped away from the ground, revealing the black earth, and then a long indentation in the snow, a long drag from the snow into the trees.

He knelt and put his hand on the marks. What he'd mistaken for black earth was blood, thick and half-frozen, punctuated by the sai thrust hilt deep into the hard ground.


	7. Bones in the Branches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids

Donatello froze. For a long moment, he stared at the blood and the sai, refusing to believe what he saw. The farm had always been safe, their escape from the rest of the world. And now? The farm wasn't safe. The farm wasn't safe. The monstrous new lesson beat into his brain with his pulse. The farm wasn't safe.

Raphael wasn't safe.

With mounting pressure in his ears, Donatello bent and picked up the sai, then looked back into the forest. Bare trees, white skeletal birches and old apple trees dark and covered in frost. In the wind, the branches clacked together and sent clumps of snow spilling to the hard earth. The trees and ground were empty, and yet for all the barren space, the white and brown splotches were impossible to see through.

The air seemed all too still and silent as he ran back to the house, looking over his shoulder the whole way. When he stumbled inside, slamming the door shut, the sudden heat burned his skin.

"Leo..." he panted, trying to find words to say and stammering. "Raph...I found it...he...something dragged into the trees..."

From the living room, giving Michelangelo a fresh cup of hot tea, Leonardo looked up at his brother. He saw the sai and his eyes widened. Without a word, he stood and came toward Donatello, gathering up his swords as he moved.

"When?" Leonardo demanded.

"I just found it," Donatello said, and his brother's focus cleared through the winter's chill in his brain. With a deep breath, he went and gathered his own staff. "Just now. He was coming to the barn but he didn't make it before whatever happened..."

Donatello looked up at his brother. "There was blood. And a long mark into the woods."

Leonardo growled to himself. "Dammit. I thought you two were talking. He left like ten minutes ago."

He glanced at their little brother, who'd started to stand only to bend over coughing.

"Stay put," Leonardo said. "Raph's a tank. Don't count him out yet. He might get back here before we do. Call us if he does. Keep the lights on. Don't fall asleep."

"Crap..." Michelangelo muttered between coughs, sitting back down on the futon. He pulled his nunchucks close, but he knew they'd be a last resort. "Sorry..."

"Don't be," Donatello said, following Leonardo to the door. "Maybe have tea ready when we get back?"

He didn't hear Michelangelo's answer, running at his brother's heels. At the splotch of blood in the snow, Leonardo knelt and examined the marks. Snowflakes dotted the blood, now turned to ice, and Leonardo frowned as he swept the accumulation away.

"Deer tracks..." he murmured. "That's weird."

He stood, and his gaze followed the drag marks into the trees. He nodded once.

"Come on," he said over his shoulder. "Hopefully they didn't get far."

They ran. Donatello felt horribly exposed, but creeping would have been useless. They were two green shadows in the woods and would have been easily visible even if they kept low. The trees themselves provided enough camouflage and distraction. Donatello hit his shoulder twice running into trunks that seemed farther than they actually were. The soft snow that had fallen calmly that morning now began to pick up, blowing in stronger gusts so that white sheets billowed in the wind.

"The storm's starting to cover the tracks," Leonardo said, his breath misting in the grey air. "A few more minutes and I'll have to rely on broken branches."

"A few more m-minutes," Donatello said, "and we're g-gonna have bigger problems."

If they'd had jackets... Donatello sighed. Warm clothing wouldn't have helped much. Their blood just didn't handle cold well. The spike of adrenaline and fear did more for them than a coat would have.

"There!"

Leonardo dashed forward. With a curse, Donatello ran after, first keeping up with his brother up a ridge and then spotting the dark green blur ahead.

Not unconscious but fighting, Raphael faced something larger than himself, ducking and weaving back and forth. He kept his fists up, trying to back away from whatever was in front of him. And at first Donatello had thought Raphael had thrown his remaining sai, but no, the sai was flying around in the air as if on strings.

"Raph!" Leonardo yelled, shifting his grip on his sword. "Down!"

As Raphael crouched low, Leonardo leaped blade first. Something jerked against the steel's edge and stumbled back. A spray of black liquid hit the snow and trees, and now they had dark coloring to help contrast against the endless branches and snow.

It stood on two legs but bent forward like an animal, skeletal thin and white. The head finally came into focus, elongated with exposed teeth snapping in the air like cracking twigs. And then it bent and swept an impossibly long arm around, catching Leonardo's shell and flinging him sideways into the snow.

"What the hell is it?" Raphael said, and he moved between his brother and the thing.

"Can't tell," Donatello said, swinging his staff to back it up and earn them some room. "I can barely see where it is."

"Aim for the sai," Leonardo said as he got back to his feet. "It's the easiest to-"

The thing's scream drowned his voice. Leaning forward into the hit, Donatello thrust his staff just below Raphael's sai, knocking it free, and the force of the impact rattled his teeth. The bone-white creature staggered back, turning its long head and bringing its teeth down on his staff. Wood splintered as it wrenched the staff out of his grasp.

Raphael rolled in low, grabbing his sai from where it'd fallen, and plunged it up into the creature's center. The sai's tip dug into a tough mass like gristle, and then the thing was screaming, screaming, flailing its arms. Black ichor covered his hands as it yanked itself off of his sai.

Easier to see the black splashes on the snow between its hoofed tracks than to actually see the creature itself as it backed into the forest. Behind it, the snow turned into a storm, thick and roaring with stinging wind, all but hiding its escape. There was a blur as it turned, blending with the branches, and it knocked against the trees like bones against wood.

Leonardo followed for several steps, but as he passed Raphael, his brother reached out and grabbed the edge of his shell, holding him back.

"Let it go!" Raphael yelled over the wind.

In disbelief, Leonardo glared at him and tried to pull out of his grasp, but Raphael's grip was iron.

"You can't follow that thing in a blizzard." Raphael waved his arm in its direction. The creatures tracks were already covered. "We're gonna freeze solid."

Leonardo hesitated, torn—a driving instinct told him to hunt it down now while it was wounded, dripping its black blood—but another tug on his shell made him sheathe his sword and turn away.

"Which way's the house?" Raphael said, leaning down so he'd be easier to hear over the wind. "I got turned around."

"This way." Donatello pointed. "We came in a straight line."

Following him, they sprinted back along what they thought was their trail in. As Raphael stumbled and Leonardo moved slower, Donatello stopped and slung Raphael's arm over his shoulder, put his arm around Leonardo's waist.

"Really hope you know which way you're going," Raphael muttered.

"S-so do I," Donatello said.

As the seconds stretched into minutes, Donatello started to doubt himself. Every direction looked the same and he didn't think they'd taken so long to come this far into the woods. Worse, they were no longer running. Even if he was right, they were trudging back so slowly that if the trees didn't stop soon—

They pushed through a thick patch of dried brambles and came out into a clear expanse of snow. Donatello looked up surprise. There was the road, but where was the house?

"Left," Leonardo slurred, shifting against his side.

Donatello glanced left and spotted the house. He'd been a little off target and taken them too far one way. With a huff, not caring that they were in broad daylight, he slogged through snow that came up to their knees, hauling them more and more. Each step came slower, and he gasped in frozen air, chilling himself further.

Halfway there, the kitchen door opened and Michelangelo came running out, taking Raphael's other arm. Donatello shifted his burden to his little brother and turned, bending so Leonardo could likewise lean on him.

"Dude," Michelangelo rasped, "what happened?"

"S-something attacked us," Donatello said. "C-couldn't tell."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Kinda freezing," Raphael growled. "Ask me again when I'm inside."

They went up into the kitchen into warmth. Donatello groaned at what felt like biting heat, but he managed to pull himself and Leonardo to the fireplace. As his brother curled up, Donatello threw another log on the fire and put his shell against the hearthstones.

Raphael plopped down beside him, pulling the closest blanket toward the fire to warm the cloth, then spreading it over Leonardo. When that didn't bring a response, he bent and pulled Leonardo closer, holding him against his side.

"Stupid big bro'," Raphael said. "Too little to go playing in snow."

"Stupid big bro'," Leonardo muttered, never opening his eyes. "Too dumb to avoid an ambush..."

"Least I didn't try to go running off into a blizzard," Raphael said. "After a...a..."

Raphael looked over at Donatello. "After a what?"

"I'll figure that out," Donatello said, "when my hands stop shaking."

"Hot coffee," Michelangelo said from the kitchen, coming in and handing one mug each to Donatello and Raphael, then another cup to Leonardo, nudging him so he'd take it. "And a hot tea. Got rice boiling and chicken in the oven, but that's gonna take a bit."

"Turning into a regular Suzy Homemaker," Raphael chuckled, holding the coffee in one hand and pressing his free hand against his temple to soothe his headache. "Thanks."

Michelangelo coughed, turning his head, and he waved away Raphael's comments. "Keep it up and I'll give you anything that burns."

"Long as it's hot," Raphael said, "I dun care."

"Anyone got frostbite?" Donatello asked, ignoring Leonardo's muttered 'no' and examining him anyway. "Raph, concussion?"

"Ain't feeling sick," Raphael said. "Knocked me for a loop, but I didn't go under. I just got a lot of bruises. That thing grips hard."

"There was blood on the snow," Donatello said, but he looked away down at the floor. "Huh. Blackish blood. Guess you got it good."

Raphael grinned, but he squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn if warming up don't hurt as bad as getting cold."

Donatello hissed. Raphael looked over at him and saw him brush away a few hot drops that had splashed his hand.

"Cold still got you shaking?" Raphael asked.

Donatello sighed and shoulders dropped. "No...not the cold."

Raphael watched him for a moment, then put his arm around him. Between them, Leonardo shifted and burrowed into the blanket.

"Thanks for coming after me," Raphael said in a low voice. "Even if I got away, would'a just gotten lost out there."

A weak smile crossed Donatello's face. They'd pulled Raphael back from the blizzard, but outside the snow streaked across the windows, pale gold as the sun sank behind the trees. The storm may have covered a good part of the New York countryside, but he felt like it centered over their little farmhouse, hovering and waiting for them to step out again.


	8. Black Eyes and White Teeth

Raphael came back to life slowly, draining one cup of tea and demanding another, too sluggish to recognize Michelangelo's humor when he placed a huge thermos in front of him instead. Hot enough to make the steel surface painful, the tea made Raphael grimace but he drank it in fast gulps.

Beside him, Donatello had turned and curled around the hearth stones. He'd warmed up enough to start shivering, his hands shaking so much that Raphael sighed and handed him the rest of his thermos.

Between them, his shell resting against the fire place and easily holding his own tea, Leonardo sat with his head down, eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe evenly. The air around them was hot, uncomfortably so, and he began to sit straight, shoulders back, as he warmed enough to relax.

Raphael noticed and gave his shoulder a light punch. "You got better quick."

"Kinda surrounded," Leonardo said, nudging Donatello who only squirmed closer.

"You froze real quick, too."

Leonardo sighed, narrowing his eyes, but after a moment, he nodded once and accepted the unsaid criticism. Raphael was a tank who could absorb more damage. Leonardo, a head shorter and much lighter, simply couldn't take the snow as well.

"I'll be careful," Leonardo said.

"You'll be dead!" Raphael grinned, then coughed raggedly. "Dammit..."

"Karma," Michelangelo said, smacking him with a full thermos before giving it to him. "Don't even joke about that."

"Just a Star Wars quote," Leonardo said. "'Sides, he's right. He lasted, what, fifteen minutes out there? I was barely outside for five."

"I was fighting," Raphael shrugged. "'Course I dunno what I was fighting..."

"Yeah, what the hell was that?" Donatello said over his shoulder. "And don't say a deer."

"...it left tracks like one," Leonardo said. He paused, then groaned to himself and started to sit up, bolting down his tea. "Dammit. Those deer tracks we saw before."

"You saw it before?" Michelangelo leaned in close and poked him. "And you didn't tell us?"

"'Cause we thought it was a damn deer," Leonardo said, batting away his accusing finger. "I don't even know what it is yet."

He started to stand, then grunted as his right knee buckled. His whole body still felt locked with every muscle wanting to sink back down against the hearth.

"...quit trying to make me feel bad," Michelangelo muttered, holding his hand out. "I'm still pissed at you."

"For not being psychic?" Leonardo said, but he took the help, leaning on his little brother. "I know I saw a pencil in the kitchen. Could you grab it?"

"Where?" Michelangelo asked, turning so that Leonardo could sit back on the couch. "It's kind of a mess in there."

Donatello looked up from where he wriggled closer to Raphael, his eyes barely visible under the blanket.

"It's on the calendar."

Leonardo sank down into the couch, wincing as feeling rushed painfully back into his body. Feeling like a lead statue, he had to push himself to reach the old diary against the arm rest. Flipping the pages, he found several blank sheets in the back that had no lines or marks.

"Hang on," Michelangelo called from the kitchen. "Water's almost ready for the next round of tea."

"If I don't warm up soon," Raphael muttered, "I'm gonna drown."

But he still took the next offered cup, beginning to uncurl himself from the hearth and sit down properly on the edge. Donatello muttered something and sat back against Raphael's legs, yawning as he took his own mug.

"Don't let us fall asleep," Donatello said. "I don't think anything bad'll happen now, but we don't usually get that cold, either."

Leaving the pencil aside for the moment, Leonardo took the next hot tea that Michelangelo brought, holding the steaming cup in his hand for several seconds. Slowly his hands warmed, letting him curl his fingers properly again. Only after he finished it did he take up the pencil.

"It was really tall," Leonardo said, staring at the blank page. "At least twice Raph's size."

"But it was kinda bent over," Raphael said. "It didn't stand up so good, like its legs weren't built for that."

"Dog legs," Donatello added. "Or horse legs."

"The tracks looked like deer prints," Leonardo said, "so I'm going with that."

The sketch was nothing but short, straight lines at first-long back, crooked legs like a spidery thin deer. Then the arms, grasping things with...

"Did it have hands?" he wondered softly. "I don't remember."

Raphael snorted. "It grabbed me with something."

Leonardo drew normal human hands, frowned and erased them. Drew their own three fingered-hands, then erased those, too. Then drew four long spikes off of the arm stump and looked critically at the blurry mess.

"The blur feels better than the hands," he muttered.

"That is getting weird looking," Michelangelo said over his shoulder. "What's its head look like?"

"Long," Raphael said quickly. "Real long. Like someone took a human face and stretched it."

"It looked human?" Donatello asked. "I couldn't see it long enough to tell."

"Not human," Raphael said, shaking his head once. "Like, it didn't get stretched down. It got stretched out. Like you hooked a human's eye sockets and mouth and pulled, and it went with it."

"What, really?" Michelangelo asked. "Gross."

"Not like there was blood or guts or nothing," Raphael said. "It was smooth white."

"The whole body was white, wasn't it?" Leonardo said.

"No wonder we had such a hard time picking it out against the trees," Donatello said. "All those white birch and whatever else is out there. It was like picking out bones against branches."

Leonardo didn't reply, adding rounded edges and creating very thin bones on the lines he'd already drawn. Then hooves big enough to match the hands. He started on a rough triangle for the face, extremely long and pointed.

"Were there things on its head?" he asked.

"Kinda?" Raphael said. "I dunno. There was something above it, but I couldn't make it out. By the time I turned over, its head was in the trees."

"So it looked like the trees around it?" Leonardo asked.

Raphael shrugged.

Not sure of what to add, Leonardo stuck a few haphazard lines like branches around its head. He leaned back, staring critically at what he'd drawn. Then turned it around to show his brothers.

"Something's missing," he said.

Donatello and Raphael stared at it for a moment, tilting their heads. With a deep breath, Raphael bent and crawled toward him, resting against the couch as he took a better look.

"Put something on its front," Raphael said. He tapped the drawing where the chest would be. "I stabbed my sai into it, so there's gotta be something there."

"Huh." Leonardo lay the image flat and sketched a circle, then added several lines and shadded beneath them "I guess it would have ribs, so that's gotta be muscle over a heart."

"And it had teeth," Raphael said. "Big ones."

"Pointed?" Leonardo asked.

"Naw, like rabbit teeth, I guess. Real long, though."

Leonardo added the small chisel shapes to the very end of the pointed face, redefining the dark splotches where the imagined the eyes would be. With a single line defining its mouth, the face became an abnormally long mouth.

"No," he whispered. "It felt bigger than that."

"Yeah," Raphael said. "It was like it was knocking on the trees around it."

"There was something on its back," Donatello said. He turned on his hands and knees and crept onto the futons, curling up with a blanket. "Something big, but it was hard to see. Like a bunch of wheel spokes."

Blinking in confusion, Leonardo and Raphael both looked at him, then at each other. When Raphael shrugged, Leonardo could only add a handful of lines radiating out of the creature's back.

"That's the best I can do," Leonardo said, showing it to Raphael again. "At least without seeing it again."

"Kinda hope we don't," Raphael said.

Raphael took the picture, lifting it up over his head as if he were on the ground look up at it. The black eyes stared back, and he grimaced.

"Close enough," he said, tossing it back on the couch.

Michelangelo picked it up, opening the book back to the drawing. He stared at it for a long moment, looking at his brothers to make sure that they were certain this was what they'd fought.

"So," he said too casually, "when do we drive out?"

Leonardo closed his eyes. His own words came back to him-that if anything strange happened here, they would leave. He couldn't justify putting his brothers through that kind of hell again, not if they knew it was coming. It might not have been a ghost, but something unearthly threatening their home was exactly what he'd promised they'd flee from. There was just one problem.

"And go where?" Donatello muttered.

"I don't know," Michelangelo said. "I don't care. Anywhere but here."

"Mikey-"

"Don't 'Mikey' me!"

Michelangelo glared at his brother, clenching the book so tight that the pages creaked.

"I am not doing that again," Michelangelo said. "Those things were in our home. We all nearly died and we couldn't even fight them."

He pointed at the windows now turning dark, lit more by the fire inside than the setting sun.

"You really wanna go back in there and fight it?" he demanded. "When just one round with it put all of you down like this? I mean whatever it is, it snuck up on Raph and you, Donny, you didn't even hear a thing."

Both of them winced. Impossible to argue against, especially when their little brother's eyes were wide and scared. He often turned the puppy dog eyes on his siblings, who hated it for how effective it was, even when he was just whining. His pleading was almost impossible to bear.

"We can figure out a place later," Michelangelo said, turning and heading to the kitchen door. "It's still light. We can pack up, drive out-there's tons of towns we could try."

"The roads are like ice," Donatello tried. "Even the cops are going like ten miles an hour with their sirens going."

Michelangelo didn't answer, first looking through the window to make sure nothing was outside, then opening the door. He walked out onto the kitchen steps-

-and stopped.

Like running into a wall, all of his movement stopped. His shoulders started to drop, and the book in his hands slid through his fingers to the wooden floor.

"Mikey?" Raphael stood, the only one of them who could, and rushed to his side. He scrabbled against his belt for sai that weren't there. "Mikey, what is it?"

He looked out over the snow.

Deer tracks.

Coming from the tree line up to the faint marks Donatello's deep footprints, all that was left of their trudge back from the fight. Then to the kitchen door, then to the van, parked between the door and the forest.

Raphael followed the tracks over to the wall and saw how they lined up with the windows, how there were more hoof prints in the snow just outside each pane of fragile glass. He'd never been so glad for the damn frilly curtains.

"Well..." Michelangelo breathed, staring ahead at nothing. "Guess we ain't driving out."

His hollow tone made Raphael take another look at the van.

One of the tires had been slashed to shreds.


	9. Empty Sockets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watercolor Art by H0w_d0_y0u_d0_fell0w_kids

Static hissed from the old radio. Raphael turned the dial across the spectrum, catching only broken snatches of songs, crackling voices that disintegrated with each gust. Finally he settled on the only steady sound, a low news report that faded in and out as the snow audibly tapped against the windows. He set the radio back on the mantle where he'd found it. No wonder it was the only entertainment in the house. No other signals could possibly carry in the harsh winter.

– _still on...out for...teenage son...four year old daught'...authorities fear the worst...Paris accords—_

They burned through several logs, heating the living room past a comfortable temperature trying to warm themselves. Michelangelo closed off the side room and the closet, then discovered why the stairs had their own door. With the second floor closed off, they didn't waste any wood trying to heat the whole house. They'd found an old ax in the kitchen, nestled conveniently between the water heater and the stove, ready for adding another tree to the woodpile. But next to the fireplace, they still had a sizable pile of logs ready to go, and after the room was warm again, they eyed the kitchen door and stopped throwing logs on.

No one wanted to go outside to chop more.

In the kitchen, Michelangelo washed his hands with what felt like ice water, then ripped open a spice packet to pour into four different bowls. As he tapped the last bits out, he coughed and winced. The packet went into the trash and he washed his hands again. They couldn't all afford to be sick.

"Now I'm really glad you guys got so many soup packets," he said over his shoulder. "But I kinda wish you'd gotten more salt."

Seated in front of the fire, Donatello balanced his laptop on his knees. "Next time you go shopping. I was just trying to get us enough meds."

"Which means you let the health nut do the food shopping." Michelangelo tsk'ed and gathered the kettle as it started to whistle, tipping hot water into the bowls. "You're lucky he couldn't find any tofu or seaweed."

Lounging on the sofa, Leonardo refused to comment, especially since there hadn't been any tofu or seaweed. He looked up occasionally from his book to glance out the window. The curtains were thick enough to block out the light, and he only pushed aside a small corner to keep an eye on the expanse of snow, looking for deer tracks.

The sun had dropped behind the trees, leaving a gray twilight that turned increasingly black. The outside light by the kitchen door was on, although Leonardo had argued against it. It gave the monsters in the forest something to focus on, a precise spot they could break through. Maybe the monsters didn't understand doors. The light was nothing but a weakness.

His brothers had counter argued that the monsters already knew that at least three delicious turtles were living here, and the monsters clearly lived in the forest anyway. They already knew how to move through the dark. At least the light let them see if the monsters had ventured out of the forest into the clearing behind the house.

And it was a light against the dark. He'd given up arguing when the sun set.

"Probably can't go back to the shop for awhile anyway," Donatello said after a moment. "I don't care how much cash Leo has tucked away in his shell, that shop owner must think he's nuts with all his stuff vanishing and a thousand bucks left behind."

"He got a fifty dollar bonus," Leonardo muttered, letting the curtain fall back. "Considering how dusty some of those cans were, I'd be surprised if he noticed how much we took."

Resting against the hearth, Raphael shrugged and reached his arms out, trembling as he stretched out to the fullest. Every joint ached, and he grimaced as he tried to rub the pain out of them. He could feel his fingers and toes again, but they still tingled as the frozen numbness wore off. Combined with being cooped up and under constant watch, his mood was just as cold.

"Probably just helped fuel his hick meth habit," Raphael muttered.

Struck silent, Leonardo and Donatello both slowly turned to look at their brother. From the kitchen, Michelangelo leaned into view with wide eyes.

"Dude," Michelangelo said. "Harsh."

Raphael blinked and pointed at the radio. "Don't gimme that. It was on NPR, meth in the rural towns."

"Wait, you're really listening to that?" Leonardo asked, lowering his book. "Half the time, it's just static."

"Ain't nothing else." Raphael shrugged. "And it's the only station coming in."

"Tell me you'll change it if it starts up with folk music," Leonardo said.

"And just listen to the fire and you turning pages?" Raphael snorted. "Life can't be all koto drums and shamisens."

Leonardo muttered something about western music and went back to reading.

"Okay," Michelangelo said, bringing in a tray that he set down on the futons. "Dinner is ready."

Raphael and Donatello glanced aside, the short distance between them and the futons suddenly feeling distant. Pitiless, Michelangelo sat crosslegged and picked up his own dish, blowing to cool it and then drinking slowly. His eyes shut and his head tilted in such satisfaction that his brothers sighed loudly.

"Heartless bastard," Raphael said, leaning forward in the chair. He eased to the edge of his seat, then lowered himself to the floor and went to his hands and knees, crawling to the bowls.

"S'your own fault you're that sore," Michelangelo said. "If you were up and moving, you'd feel better by now."

Donatello shot him a look as he set his laptop on the floor and scooted away from the fireplace, coming beside Raphael so that they sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning on each other for support.

"We are almost literally thawing, you brat," he said, cupping his hands around a soup bowl and holding it close, breathing the warm steam. "Oh man...that feels so good."

"Feels better inside," Michelangelo said. "Don't let it get cold. We don't have a microwave to heat it up again."

"That's what stove tops are for," Donatello murmured, but he began drinking from the edge of the bowl, wincing as it burned going down. "But okay, yeah, that's pretty hot."

"...yeah, not bad," Raphael said, grumbling as he ate. He gave Michelangelo a nod, though, for the double portion.

"No problem," Michelangelo said. "It was just boiling some water. Leo, you gonna come get yours?"

Leonardo didn't answer. He'd sat straight, studying the diary more intently. Frowning, he flipped back a page, then another.

"Uh," Michelangelo said. "Earth to Leo, chick diaries ain't that interesting."

"I'm not..." Leonardo huffed, annoyed as the page began to crack under his fingers. "Dammit. This thing is just too old."

"It's breaking apart?" Donatello asked.

"Not that," Leonardo said. "I mean, you're right. It is, but that's not—it's the handwriting. The ink. It's getting so blurry that I'm not sure what I'm reading, but..."

He brought his feet up, curling in the chair and pulling the blanket up.

"January 12," he read. "Terrible commotion last night. Animals in the barn horribly frightened. Edward told me to stay inside as he and Marley and Jacob investigate. Aunt Dorothy in terrible fright. Sat with her until dawn. Edward believes deer ran through the clearing past the road and knocked their antlers against the barn. Tracks everywhere in the snow."

"January 15, bark stripped off the trees. Marley says the local deer are starving. Has taken to wearing rifle at all times. Edward and Jacob, the same."

"Rifles," Raphael scoffed. "For starving deer?"

"January 18. Have moved upstairs. Edwards insists. Not allowed out of the house. No one will tell me what happened last night. Horrid rest cure. Feel terrible useless."

"January 20. Jacob lies to me. That was not a wolf. I was not sleeping. That was no dream."

"January 22. I saw it. Not it—not it—but I saw the cow. Half the cow. Poor Betsy. Her lowing woke me and then she shrieked and. Great streaks of blood on the snow. The barn door banging in the wind."

Leonardo paused, compulsively checking the window again. Smooth snow. No tracks.

The radio hissed static at an uncomfortable volume. Donatello reached out and turned it completely off, musing on the question that raised.

"Did it figure out the latch on the barn door?" he whispered. "That's really not much of a leap. Not much farther to working the kitchen door."

"The barn door isn't like the kitchen door," Michelangelo said, also whispering. "That one's round. And locked better."

"Barn door ain't got glass in it," Raphael pointed out. "Or the big front windows."

"What else does it say?" Donatello asked.

"That's as far as I got," Leonardo said, keeping his place in the book while flipping forward. "I didn't—"

He stopped.

His brothers sat straighter, glancing at each other, then at the eldest. Leonardo studied the page intently, his gaze sweeping over details in each corner. As the silence stretched, Raphael huffed.

"Quit stalling," he grumbled. "What is it?"

Leonardo turned the book so they could see. In her diary, June Mayfield had also drawn the creature.

Her sketch was as haphazard as Leonardo's, the arms and legs similarly blurry with indistinct hands and hooves. But the head was clear, a long triangle with sharp teeth at the tip, and two dark sockets for eyes that stared directly out of the page. From the top of its head, tall horns branched out wildly like a broken halo, and above that, long spikes came out of its back, fading into a blur.

Michelangelo grabbed his brother's sketch from the floor and held it up beside.

"She missed the ribs," he said uselessly, "but the face is clearer."

"'I saw it'," Leonardo said, reading again. "It saw me. It looked up at the window. It knows I'm here. It wouldn't come in the light—Edward has a lamp at nearly every window. The lamp here is two windows over, though, and. We saw each other."

Leonardo swallowed once, cursing himself for their own close call and his own mistake.

"I guess the light was a good idea," he mumbled.

Despite the wind blowing against the walls and the constant puffs of snowflakes hitting the glass, Raphael quirked a smile.

"Don't take it too hard," he said. "It's a ninja like you. It don't like the light, neither."

Leonardo couldn't stop his small smile, but that faded as he turned the page. And turned another page quickly. And another.

"What...?" He shook his head once. "It just stopped."

"What do you mean 'it just stopped'?" Michelangelo asked.

After looking at the last pages, blank but unlined and clearly not for writing, Leonardo closed the book and tossed it to his little brother.

"I don't know," he said. "There's stuff after it, but it's just like what was at the beginning. Almanac dates and bible verses. Nothing that she wrote."

"What?" Michelangelo flipped through the pages, tilting the book so Raphael and Donatello could see. "Okay, did she die? 'Cause that's totally what would've happened in a horror flick."

"Give it here," Donatello said. He cradled the open book, finally seeing the numerous sketches June Mayfield had drawn in the diary, filling pages with flowers, scenes of her cousins at work, the cows in the field and the snow in the windowpane. He turned each page until he reached the end. "No, I don't think she stopped. See, at the back, down at the bottom—'Montgomery set, series Celestial'. It's like a set of journals. She probably just switched to the next one."

All of them looked at Leonardo, who groaned and put his head in his hands.

"God...dammit."

"What?" Michelangelo asked, a growing panic as he looked from his brother to the fireplace. "Oh geez, we didn't use them for kindling, did we?"

Raphael frowned. "Don't tell me they're in the barn."

"No no," Leonardo sighed. "Nothing like that. It's just...I really didn't want to go back in the attic."

Donatello frowned. "Don't worry. You won't."

Stung at his brother's tone, Leonardo lifted his head with a frown to match. "Uh, if you want the next journal, yeah, I will—"

"What?" Donatello asked. "Go to the second floor that we've stopped heating? And climb up into the attic that's got like no insulation? It's so drafty I wouldn't be surprised if there's snow blowing in."

"Less than five minutes," Leonardo said, "and I wouldn't be out in the elements. Don't get so dramatic—"

"Oh, I am not the drama queen in this family," Donatello said.

Michelangelo considered that. "Did you mean Leo or Raph?"

"Can it, twerp," Raphael said with a smack to the back of his brother's head.

"I'll go up there," Donatello said, already gathering his legs underneath himself, "get all the books, and bring them down here where we can sort them out."

"Don—" Leonardo tried.

"You're still shaky from the cold," Donatello said.

"So are you."

"Yeah, but I still won't succumb as quickly as you would up there."

Michelangelo and Raphael both winced. This was bordering on the thing that was not to be discussed, only alluded to. As much as their big brother could piss them off, some things were simply not thrown in his face.

Leonardo took a long breath, letting it out slowly. Calm again, he answered in a flat voice.

"You won't fit."

Donatello blinked. "What?"

"You..." Leonardo huffed and leaned back in the chair, glaring at the ceiling so he didn't have to look at them. "You've grown since the last time we were here. You won't fit through the entrance, let alone the crawlspace."

"I..." Donatello paused. He hadn't been up in the attic for years. None of the wiring that still worked ran through there. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." Leonardo wouldn't look at any of them. "It's not super tight, but...turtle shells just don't bend like that."

Not that their shells weren't more flexible than a regular turtle's, but he made a squeezing motion with his hands. Their shells simply couldn't give and take like human flesh. Donatello wouldn't be forcing himself up.

"What about me?" Michelangelo asked.

"You're heftier than all of us combined," Raphael said.

"I'm serious," Michelangelo said, smacking his shoulder. "I'm, like, narrower. Flatter. And my shell does too bend like that. Well, maybe not a lot, but I'll bet I fit."

They all looked to Leonardo again, and at his tired sigh, they knew he wouldn't argue.

Which was how Michelangelo ended up forcing the widest part of his shell through the attic trap door, turning diagonal to give himself a few more precious inches. Beneath him, Donatello pushed on his rump, muttering comments about his calorie intake that Michelangelo refused to hear, grimacing as he felt pressed so tight that he'd pop...

...and then a great groan of relief as he was finally through. Donatello said something about widening the space by pulling out some of the supports, but he didn't stick around to listen.

No wonder Leonardo hadn't wanted to come up here. The flashlight gave him a dim circle smaller than his hand. The attic was pitch black, and he almost turned off the light, less afraid of the dark than of something skittering in front of him like a horror movie. Snow struck the roof and the wind cut through the thin gaps and breaks in the brick and wood slats, slicing across him with frozen spray that cold that it stole his breath.

"All the way in the back," Leonardo had said. "There were a couple stacks."

"Of course it's all the way in the back," Michelangelo grumbled. "Of course it is."

If the wood up here had even been varnished or painted, years had worn away the finish so that he crept over rough splinters and paint chips. His head bumped a hanging chain, but when he pulled it, there was no light. Hadn't Donatello said something about the wiring being rotted up here? He didn't remember.

A handful of boxes lay scattered around him. Despite the chill creeping up on him, he opened each one, wiping off the cardboard as it crumbled under his fingertips. Mostly he found junk, old plates, tarnished silverware, a figurine so grimy he couldn't see what it was.

He found the books and, grimacing at the damp that had set into them and the slime of mold at the bottom, he shoved all of them into the plastic grocery bag Donatello had saved. A couple of pages stuck to the wood, and he tore those free, not caring if he destroyed something in going too fast. His hands were already shaking.

Anything else, he wondered and swept the flashlight around one more time. 'Cause I'm sure as hell not coming back up here again.

His light stopped at two trunks in the corner.

Oh please let there be treasure inside, he thought. Please, please, please, that'd make all this climbing totally worth it.

With visions of old comics, baseball cards and vintage toys, he crept closer and tried the first. The lock cracked in half and fell at his touch, and when he looked inside...his shoulders dropped. Fine dust and chunks of rock, and a few bullets. He closed the lid and checked the next one.

And froze, a shriek dying in his throat.

A human skull stared up at him with black, empty sockets, resting on a pile of bones.


	10. The Thing Out of the Night

At the front door, Raphael tested the lock one more time, then looked out the window. The snow fell into the small circle of the front light, and beyond that was a long stretch of darkness. The sky lit with rare lightning, revealing thick gray clouds that blocked out the moon and stars. Far down the road, a car's headlight appeared, turned and vanished again as the wind blew a flurry of snow up against the window. He winced as the draft cut across his plastron, and he retreated back to the fireplace.

"Place is freakin' freezin'," Raphael muttered, and he threw another log on the fire. There was a small burst of sparks that lit the room, and then the light faded back to a warm glow.

A warm glow that was too small. The light barely touched the edge of the couches, leaving the staircase in silhouetted darkness. The kitchen light barely came in through the curtain and the front light only outlined the window. Only the fire provided any comfort, giving more warmth than the overtaxed heater.

Resting on the futon pile, Leonardo held the bowl in both hands, sipping the hot soup as fast as he could stand the pain. During their examination of the journal, his dinner had cooled, and Raphael had insisted on reheating it. Leonardo hadn't cared, but he'd given in when he realized his brother was already irritated and halfway toward pouring it down his throat as soon as it was boiling.

"Relax," Raphael said, pushing back the edge of the bowl to slow him down. "You try going up there and I might pitch you down the stairs."

"You can try," Leonardo muttered. "I don't like them going up there alone."

Raphael shrugged. "So what that they're two flights away from us, surrounded by windows, separated from the snow and monsters by a couple thin layers of cracked, half-abandoned wood that hasn't been replaced in probably fifty years."

"You're not helping."

"Yeah, sorry." Raphael stretched out on the couch, hands clasped behind his head as he watched the paint peel. "I don't like 'em being up there neither."

Leonardo swallowed several more mouthfuls, then drew back with a wince. He felt the heat moving down into him, burning his core but increasingly warm through the rest of him. Too warm. His head started to swim.

"Then..." he said, "how 'bout you go up there and keep an eye on them?"

"'Cause they can take care of themselves."

Leonardo bit back his first comment. Antagonizing Raphael wouldn't get him anywhere. And he didn't want to argue anyway, not with monsters and the winter storm lurking outside. Their arguments could easily send one of them stomping out into the wind, telling themselves they were just going to linger at the doorway for just a moment, just to get away from the yelling. If the wind blew hard enough, they wouldn't even hear bones clacking against tree branches.

"If something happens," Leonardo said softly, trying a different approach. "I can't get there in time. You at least should go up there."

Raphael turned his head enough so that Leonardo saw his look of disgust as Raphael lightly smacked his shoulder.

"Nope," he said. "'Cause then you'd be two flights away from me, surrounded by windows, separated from the snow and monsters by a couple of rusty hinges and weak doors that haven't been replaced in probably fifty years. And you're the one who can't handle slingshotting from hot to cold."

Hard to yell at his brother when Raphael was as worried as Leonardo as their siblings. Leonardo gave up, slumping against the couch and taking comfort in his brother resting behind him.

"It feels worse up there," Leonardo said.

"Is it all stuffed with junk and you can't see nothing?" Raphael asked.

"It's almost empty," Leonardo said. "It's just so...you don't feel safe. Like the lightning could go right through the roof."

Raphael made a small sound of understanding and didn't respond.

The fireplace crackled and hissed as one of the logs split and fell into the ashes. Upstairs, Donatello's weight made the floor creak, and the stairs to the attic sometimes knocked against the entrance as he held it steady. Then came a slow drag and thump, distant coughing, and then soft thuds as Michelangelo crawled back.

"Sounds like he's done," Raphael said. "Sounded like he found something heavy—"

"Holy guacamole!"

The ceiling did nothing to muffle Donatello's voice. Both Leonardo and Raphael straightened, glancing uselessly at the curtains over black windows. If something was outside, they wouldn't see even see a shadow.

"Guess he found something," Raphael said.

"Let's see if he can crawl out again," Leonardo said, but he was already clearing the low coffee table of dishes and the journal. Donatello's laptop he didn't dare touch.

"He got in, he can get out," Raphael said. "And it'll be easier this time. Don just has to work with gravity."

Leonardo paused. "Huh. You think they'll—"

There was a yelp and then the sound of two shells landing hard above them. Dust sifted down from between the floorboards like burning embers in the dark.

"You okay?" Raphael called up.

"...we're fine," Donatello muttered.

Raphael and Leonardo shared a look, and then they listened as their brothers moved slowly across the second floor, coming down the stairs with grunts and mutters to hold it better, to wait wait wait, no not that way, and then the mutual hiss as they carefully turned a sizeable trunk around the corner and brought it down the rest of the way.

"That ain't exactly a book," Raphael said.

"Here," Michelangelo said, tossing the plastic bag at Raphael's face. "You d-deal with it. I d-don't even w-wanna see 'em anymore."

"Serves you right," Raphael said as he grabbed the bag out of the air. "Mister 'I can totally bend that way, ooooh~'."

"I warned you it was cold," Leonardo said, watching him lay the books out on the floor. He grimaced at the amount of mold clinging to several of them, but he couldn't help but pick up one of the worst—under the ice and slime was a picture of a skeleton creeping through a window above a young woman's bed as she slept soundly. The price tag showed that it cost one penny.

"The Thing Out of the Night," he read, piecing together the title. "This must be the penny dreadful she mentioned before."

"What's left of it," Raphael said. "What's left of any of 'em. I'ma be impressed if you can get anything out of these."

Using a napkin leftover from dinner, Leonardo cleaned off a book with a similar cover as the journal. The mold scraped off, leaving the damp board clean of what had once been a fancy design of stars. The pages near the front and back were a complete loss, all stuck together in a wet block. He held it closer to the flames, trying to piece out bits of words.

"Raph, can you pass me one of my shuriken?" he murmured.

"Your swords are sharper," Raphael said, but he grabbed one of Leonardo's throwing stars from the pile by the futon and handed it over.

"Yeah, but they're too long to do this right."

"W-well, w-while you're playing with that," Michelangelo said, pulling a blanket around himself like a cocoon, "there's something w-way more interesting in the trunk."

"Mmf." Raphael grumbled as he shoved himself up, coming to help Donatello undo the last few latches. "Sure, sure. Always did say you had a lot of junk in yer—"

He fell silent when the lid lifted and the fire revealed bones and a human skull nestled in the center.

"No idea who it is," Donatello said. "There's no identifying marks."

"...it's just bones?" Raphael asked, and he reached in and nudged a few to one side, then pulled out a long thin bone that ended in frayed splinters. "Damn. Something smashed him up good."

"Y-you think it's her?" Michelangelo asked. "The diary chick?"

"I'd have to examine the pelvic bone," Donatello said. "And that's not even that exact."

Raphael pushed his hand all the way in, shoving bones aside to see if there was anything hidden beneath. There was only fine dust and scraps of clothing long since rotten to nothing.

"Why would they cart a buncha bones up to the attic?" Raphael asked.

Carefully slicing the shuriken between the pages, Leonardo didn't look up as he answered.

"To keep the things out there from eating them."

Raphael blinked. "What?"

"No, wait," Donatello said. "That makes sense. This probably wasn't bones when they went into the trunk. This was...oh wow. I think I get it."

"Sh-share the knowledge, o s-sensei," Michelangelo said.

Raphael stood and grabbed his little brother, dragging him closer to the fire. He turned Michelangelo around so he could face the flames, gathering up the heat in his hands.

"Dumbass," Raphael muttered. "You ain't gonna thaw with just the blanket."

"Sorry," Michelangelo said. "B-brain's frozen."

"Ain't much different than usual."

"The farm was under attack, right?" Donatello said. "So one of them must have been hurt. Maybe killed. They get the body back, but you can't bury anyone in the middle of winter. Ground's frozen."

"So they stick it in a trunk and forget about it?" Raphael shook his head. "I dunno, man."

Leonardo managed to pry two pages apart, and he slowly pulled the book open, wincing at bit of paper tore together. With the pages stretching out, however, the sides closest to the covers began to pull free, sliding wetly against each other.

"Anything?" Raphael asked.

"Um...I think that's January 24th." Leonardo held the journal up to the fire light, squinting to make out the words. "'It tries'...damn, half of it's gone. 'It tries. The doors. Windows. It tries.'"

"'It tries'?" Donatello echoed.

"It tries to open 'em," Raphael said, coming to his feet and going to the back door. He turned the knob to make sure it was locked. "Fuck. Fuck. Ain't like these'll keep out anything really determined."

"January 25th. Lanterns...Aunt Dorothy keeps the lights...burn the barn. Jacob gone for help."

"January 29th. Marley dead. Dragged...window."

"January 30th. Aunt Dorothy..." Leonardo paused a long moment. "Have taken Marley's rifle."

He put the book down and gingerly edged the shuriken's point under the tip of the page, trying to lift it clear. Mold stretched between the pages.

"Dragged through the window?" Donatello whispered.

"It's only glass," Leonardo said, pulling the page clear, tearing a corner no matter how slowly he went.

"February 2nd. Edward...lanterns. Won't get Dorothy. Won't...Dorothy."

"February 4th. Jacob...forest. ...head."

"February 5th..." Leonardo exhaled, pushing back from the book. "I can't read this one. It's too far gone."

Donatello reached over and took the journal, grimacing at the cold dampness. He turned it this way and that, trying to pull the pages apart, then heaved a sigh and tossed it into the trunk.

"Great...all that work for nothing," Donatello said.

"Not nothing," Leonardo said. "We know she survived."

"How?" Donatello said. "The journal just ends."

"It was kept," Leonardo said. "So were the bones. If she'd died, anyone who found those would've buried them. So she survived and she kept the bones somewhere safe so nothing could get at them."

"How can you be sure?" Donatello asked. "That's just conjecture."

Leonardo shrugged, glancing at the floor.

"It's what I would do," he said. "If..."

If their positions were reversed. If he had to reclaim one of their bodies from monsters in the forest. If they had been even a few seconds slower to reach Raphael. Michelangelo quietly got up and shuffled close to Raphael, flopping next to him and resting against his leg. Raphael grumbled but put his arm around his little brother.

"She would've been almost alone," Donatello said, picking up the book again, scanning what little they could read. "Marley got dragged away. Jacob ran...I'll bet it was just his head she saw in the forest. And 'they won't get Dorothy'..."

He glanced at the trunk again.

"Yeah. That makes sense."

"She would'a had the Jones dude," Raphael said. "Casey's great great grand whatever."

"Two humans," Leonardo said. "One of them's never used a rifle before. Against those things. For weeks."

"Then..." Michelangelo lifted his head. "We have a chance."

Raphael leaned back, giving him a look. "Well, sh'yeah. Mutant ninja, duh."

"You think the rifles are still here?" Michelangelo asked.

Leonardo frowned. "I...I don't think I saw anything like that. I wasn't really looking."

Donatello shook his head. "No way, not in working condition. But they did mention lanterns. If we keep the lights on—"

A heavy thump came from upstairs.

All of them froze, not breathing, listening to the slightest sounds of the house. Leonardo edged toward his swords resting against the chimney. Donatello reached for his staff, laying in front of the couch. Raphael gathered his sai from the floor, then slowly stood.

As Michelangelo picked up his nunchucks, he frowned as Leonardo shook his head. A quick battle of wills followed until Michelangelo realized that Leonardo meant to stay by his side, the two smallest of them safe by the fire. Michelangelo grimaced, but he didn't argue, shrugging off the blanket and rising to his feet.

Another thump followed, the hard knock of bone against wood, the creak of the roof straining under more than the weight of snow.

Raphael gave a nod, motioning Donatello with him. They moved silently on ancient floors that should have groaned with every step, Raphael moving to the dark staircase and Donatello behind him, ready to lash out over his shoulder if needed.

The house shuddered with a heavy crash from above, and the staircase door slammed wide open as biting wind blew into the room, bringing ice and snow in from the night. The fireplace flickered and died low, just glowing logs as the wind roared in the hearth. Michelangelo turned away from the stinging air, instinctively pressing closer to the flames.

The window, darkest and farthest from the light, exploded inward as a long white arm flashed inside and came around the wall, sharp fingertips leaving long gouges against the wood floor as it scrabbled for something soft to curl around. It came up, found the edge of Michelangelo's shell and pulled.

As Michelangelo yelled out, striking its forearm and only chipping away at its wrist, Raphael and Donatello turned to help—a shriek from the staircase brought them back on their guard. Unfolding like a spider from a trap, white bones spread out from the door, growing into the outline of wings that enveloped the room. Its hooves, each as big as Raphael's head, left deep dents in the floor, and as it leaned in to roar again, its long skull head followed, deerlike but with thick incisors that snapped the air.

The knotted mass of muscle in its chest pulsed and rippled over the wound at its center. Raphael narrowed his eyes.

There was a yell—Michelangelo was still fighting, wildly striking at the claws digging into his shell. Leonardo cut into the arm, but the sword stuck fast in the thick bone. With a rough pull, the thing outside brought Michelangelo around into his brother, knocking them off their feet, and then dragged their little brother up against the window. There was a scream—the sound of jagged glass on skin—and then the window was dark, the tattered curtains flapping wildly in the wind, and Michelangelo was gone.

Leonardo, down to one sword, vaulted through the window and followed him into the snow.

"Shit shit shit," Raph growled, dodging the swipe of creature's sharp wing. "Ain't got time for this—"

Donatello's staff shot over his shoulder, startlingly close to his head, and smashed into the creature's neck. A satisfying crack echoed in the room, followed by the thing reeling to one side, then planting its hooves and coming forward again, jaws open, screeching as it aimed its bite at Donatello's face—

His staff connected with the throat again. This time blood and bone sprayed out from the back of the neck, black ichor splashing the wall as the creature stumbled, sliding to the floor.

"Your first mistake," Donatello said, "was forcing yourself in a close environment."

"Witty comebacks later," Raphael said, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him several steps. "We gotta go!"

"Wait wait wait!"

Donatello jumped the couch and landed on his knees at the fireplace. He pulled out the longest piece, a heavy log burning only at one end, and tossed it to his brother.

"Light whatever you can," Donatello said. "I'll be right behind you."

"What're you—"

Raphael cut himself off. No time to ask stupid questions—half the time he didn't understand what Donatello was talking about anyway. With his makeshift torch in one hand, he kicked the kitchen door wide and plunged out into the cold night air. It took only a moment to find the trail, deep deer tracks and blood. He pushed his torch into the nearest bush, now just twigs covered in snow.

And he realized the major drawback in his brother's plan. The bush refused to catch fire, instead smoldering and smoking for several long seconds. Too many seconds. He ground his teeth and forced himself to wait. The ice on the bush was melting, slow rivulets of water dripping down the thin—

The edges of the bush finally burned, blackening and shriveling almost instantly, hissing as it produced steam, then glowing as more of its stems smoldered.

Was that enough? It would have to do. He cursed under his breath and stomped into the forest. It was so dark that any light would catch Donatello's attention.

The snow was up to his knees. He picked up his pace, following the trail, lighting the rare dead leaves on the lowest branches. Long minutes dragged by, minutes neither he nor his brothers had. Where was he? Close to the lake, if he remembered the farm's perimeter. Where was Donatello?

"Shouldn't of split up," Raphael growled, too committed to the trail to go back. "Dumb idea, dumb idea. If—"

He heard a scream farther ahead. Torch held high, providing only a small glow, he charged ahead.


	11. Cold Comfort

A thin sliver of moon highlighted the edge of the clouds covering the sky, but the rest of the night was too dark to see. Leonardo followed his brother by the sound of his shouts and the smell of blood.

He ran full tilt through the forest, his empty hand in front of himself—he still slammed his shoulder into a tree, stumbling, then continued to sprint. He felt the shock spread through his arm and switched his sword to his other hand—his off hand, but he had no choice. Already he felt his shoulder going numb.

Michelangelo screamed and the smell of blood grew stronger. Leonardo yelled his name, and his brother's responding shout was closer than he'd expected. He corrected hard to the left and ran into branches and thorns.

Then the branches clattered to the ground and the thorns scraped at his face. Not branches—bones. Not thorns—claws. He'd unknowingly plowed into the creature and knocked it over, and he ran over it and stumbled across his brother, grabbing blindly for his hands.

He found his brother's wrist and yanked, drawing him away from the thing shrieking so close that he could feel the vibrations of its voice in his shell. Then his brother came to such a sudden stop that Leonardo slipped to one knee.

"Keep pulling!" Michelangelo yelled. "It's still got me!"

A loud crack like wood on bone brought another shriek, and as Leonardo held tight—he wouldn't let go, he refused to even loosen what he knew was a painfully tight grip—his constant force began to wrench his brother inches forward.

Panting breaths came from behind them, something charging with heavy steps in the snow. Any hope that it was Raphael was dashed when Leonardo realized how high up the sounds were coming from, how tall the thing had to be. It sounded like a terrible wind rushing closer, tearing branches as it came.

Another crack—Michelangelo finally pulled free and used the momentum to help pull Leonardo after him. Something lashed out over their heads, missing them by inches as they ducked, feeling the force of it instead of seeing it. Michelangelo yelped and pulled them to the left.

"Too many trees," Michelangelo winced, "can't see a damn thing."

Something raked down across Leonardo's shell. He half-turned and slashed, but the blade passed harmlessly in the air.

"You're slowing down!" Michelangelo said. "Come on!"

Leonardo found that he couldn't answer. Cold made it impossible to breathe, let alone talk. He was still running, but in a moment, he didn't think he would be able to walk. They had sprinted further into the forest than before, pushing through the flurries of a blizzard he could barely feel anymore.

He pulled out of Michelangelo's grip and committed himself to a final, wide slash—the arc passed through something thick and lodged deep, his sword immediately wrenched away as something hot splashed his hands and face.

The sudden heat gave him enough of a shock to try to follow his brother's voice in the darkness. As something roared behind him, he found himself pushing through snow that was up to his waist. He bowed his head, bringing his arms close to his body, and as his shoulder scraped up against the rough bark of a tree, he had enough presence of mind to move around it, placing it between him and the thing behind him.

Handfuls of snow and ice fell down on him as the tree shook. Michelangelo was calling his name but neither could see each other. Were they down to one monster now? Or were there still more in the forest, coming at the monster's call?

Firelight—orange and red flame glinted on steel. Raphael's voice followed in a wordless bellow as the small circle of light came closer, and the burning log in his hand sent a sparkle across the sword still buried in the creature's arm. Then Raphael caught its flailing wing in one sai, forcing it back with the fire in his other hand.

"Goddammit, Leo, could use a little help here!"

Leonardo looked up. He could barely make out the blurs of his brother and the monster, an indescribable mass of white bones that moved against a backdrop of trees and snow, but the glint of fire on his sword—that he could see. That he could put his hand out and force his fingers closed around.

He couldn't pull or draw it back, but he didn't have to. Its thrashing against his weight sent the blade through its arm, severing it with a spray across white snow, joined by another mist of blood as Raphael's sai went through its skull.

"Come on, you fucker, I'm over here!"

At first Leonardo thought that Raphael was still yelling at him, but when the shouting continued, he realized that the voice was farther away. He turned his head, wincing at the snow flurries blowing across his eyes, and spotted Michelangelo edging backward. A tall, white blur paced in and out of view, and a moment passed before Leonardo realized that it was one more creature, its wings unfurled, menacing his little brother.

"Mikey!" Raphael screamed, his voice suddenly shrill with panic. "Geddoffa there! The ice can't hold you!"

"Come on, you bastard," Michelangelo said, ignoring his brother. "Fresh meat!"

Leonardo found himself rousted to his feet again, leaning on Raphael's arm as his larger brother rushed to close the distance between them. They moved painfully slowly, one step at a time, and if Leonardo could have thought clearly, he would have realized that Michelangelo was luring the largest monster away from his vulnerable sibling.

The thing stomped onto the ice, then lunged, arms and wings out. Michelangelo rolled sideways, under its arm, sliding with his momentum.

"Get off the ice, you fucking moron!"

But with the monster so close, Michelangelo had to keep moving backward, diagonal away from them. It wasn't until they all heard it that Leonardo grasped what was making Raphael so frantic.

A loud crack of ice breaking on top of the lake. The monster roared, flailing as the ice shifted beneath its hooves, and its hand caught Michelangelo's jaw, sending him sprawling backward.

Leonardo didn't remember how he was suddenly leaping under the monster's outstretched arm, and then sliding across the ice to catch Michelangelo's hand just before his brother could completely vanish under the water.

Furious yells came from behind him, Raphael roaring louder than the monster he faced. The battle was moving away, leaving Leonardo and Michelangelo balanced precariously at the edge. Leonardo held tight, but his arm felt like ice and he felt his blood slowing like slush. In his grip, he didn't feel Michelangelo moving at all, and he wondered if they would pull out a corpse.

Two corpses, he thought, watching the world blur into darkness. But he swore his hand would freeze before he let go, even in death.

Two bright beams of light flashed over the forest, Raphael's only warning as he sprang to one side. There was a sickening crunch, a hot splatter that he assumed was blood, and then he was staring at the monster's body pinned against a birch tree. The monster shuddered, its wings flapping uselessly for a moment, and then its skull-like head slumped down and its whole body went limp.

He took only a second to glance in the driver's seat at Donatello, pushing the deflating airbag away from the steering wheel. At his weary thumbs up, Raphael charged back toward his brothers.

His jaw dropped when he only saw Leonardo prone on the ice. With a steady string of prayers, he braced one arm around his older brother, then reached into the lake, following the line of Leonardo's arm and hand, still firmly grasping Michelangelo's hand. Grunting at the cold, Raphael grabbed his little brother and dragged him out, then started pulling both them of them across the groaning ice.

"I got L-Leo," Donatello said, coming from behind him. "Is M-M-Mikey br-reathing?"

"D-dunno yet."

Raphael sounded more calm than he felt, gathering his little brother into his arms and hurrying him out of the wind into the van. Leonardo was set beside him, and then Donatello slammed the doors shut and was back in the driver's seat.

"Check for a pulse," Donatello said over his shoulder. "Then listen for breathing. Chest compressions if no pulse, breathe for him until he starts."

"Kinda hard to feel anything," Raphael muttered, but he put his fingertips at Michelangelo's throat for several seconds. Cold chills not from the snow started to creep up his shell, but just as he turned to beg Donatello to come back and do this instead, he felt a solid thump against his skin.

"Shit, I only felt one heartbeat," he said, bending low to put his ear by his brother's mouth. Nothing.

"His heart might have slowed," Donatello said. "Don't panic."

"He ain't breathing, Donny—"

"Don't panic," Donatello repeated. "Just do the breathing for him and he'll take over when he can."

Donatello didn't hear anything afterward, and he glanced in the rear view to see Raphael bent over Michelangelo, holding his brother's head in his hand, giving him every other breath.

He drove slowly through the forest, careful to avoid the trees that he'd grazed as he drove in. Branches hung askew, snapped and hanging by strips of bark, showing just how close he'd come to crashing or smashing the windshield. He hadn't had time to change out the slashed tire, and it made the whole van shudder and pull to the right.

When they came out of the forest, he didn't stop at the house, instead taking them straight into the barn. He couldn't leave the engine running, but he moved quickly to gather armfuls of wood from the pile at the kitchen, then hauled them back and closed the doors behind himself. Within a moment, he had the wood in the middle of the barn floor and kindled with the smoldering branches Raphael had left in his wake.

"How's Mikey doing?" Donatello asked as he opened the van, already pulling Leonardo into his arms.

"Heart's beating faster," Raphael said. "Still ain't breathing."

"Bring him over to the fire."

It was another several minutes as Donatello brought blankets and futons from the house, piling them so that he could sit with Leonardo in his arms, sharing body heat along with the warmth from the fire. Long minutes passed with nothing but the sound of the fire crackling and Raphael working on Michelangelo.

The faint cough and gasp nearly brought them both to tears. Donatello buried his face in the crook of Leonardo's neck. He wouldn't admit that he hadn't really believed it would work.

"Jesus Christ, you little shit," Raphael said, gathering Michelangelo up against himself. "Don't scare us like that again."

There was no response but a weak breathless laugh. Raphael brought the blanket up over himself like a cloak, wrapping them up in a bundle. He rubbed his little brother's hands in his, not mentioning how he felt like he was sitting with a block of ice in his arms.

"How's Leo doing over there?" he whispered.

"Breathing with a pulse," Donatello murmured. "Just have to get them warm again."

Raphael gave him a look. "Really?"

Donatello met his gaze evenly. What else could they do?

"...uh." Raphael wasn't sure how to respond to his brother's silence. "So, um. Guessin' we're here 'cause the house has a hole in it."

"The house has a lot of holes in it," Donatello said. "It's almost as drafty as here, but the barn doesn't have a huge break in the roof."

"Don't have a kitchen, either," Raphael said, no judgment in his voice. "Or bathrooms. Or...nothing."

"...yeah."

Donatello sighed and pulled Leonardo closer.

"When they're better," he said softly. "When they're...when they're awake and moving around."

"Then what?" Raphael asked. "We fix up the house?"

"That would take a lot more resources than I have," Donatello said. "In more ways than one."

Raphael watched him cling to his older brother, holding him like a security blanket. Unconscious, Leonardo shifted, barely turning his head toward the sound of Donatello's voice.

"So we're leaving," Raphael said. "Where to?"

"I have to steal a new wheel for the van," Donatello said. "We have to load it up with whatever we can scrounge. Then..."

He sighed, his plan crumbling apart without any goal.

"Back to the water treatment plant?" Raphael asked.

Donatello didn't answer, merely slowly shaking his head.

In the morning, he still didn't have an answer. He went through the motions of making breakfast, brushing snow from the kitchen countertops as he cooked and forcing something hot down everyone's throats. Then he built the fire back up again as they waited.

By then, they were in one pile together, huddled for reassurance as much as warmth. None of them spoke, content to watch the fire and listen for anything outside.

In the evening, as Raphael fiddled with the radio again and found nothing but static, he huffed and glanced at his brother.

"So...any idea what they were?"

Donatello didn't have to ask. He half-shrugged.

"Mutants? Cryptids? I mean...we're not all that far from the Pine Barrens. I would've said Jersey devils, but..."

"Ain't no woman giving birth to something that big," Raphael said. "Not without a lot of ripping on the way out."

"I don't think they're that big when they're born," Donatello said, rolling his eyes.

"Still...three or four...how many'd we kill?" Raphael half-shrugged, shifting Michelangelo in his arms. "Hell with it, buncha dead devils. We should call Casey, he could get on National Geographic."

Donatello pulled out the communicator he kept in his belt. He dialed the number, then held it out so Raphael could hear the lack of a signal.

"Still too cloudy?" Raphael asked.

"...no." Donatello put the communicator back. "I tried calling them before, back when we were leaving. Figured I just missed them, but now..."

"Wanna swing by? Y'know, just say hey, check up on 'em, crash on their couches."

"I don't want to live on April's good will," Donatello said. "But...there are abandoned buildings in New York. We could probably stake one out."

"And what, hope no one drops by?" Raphael chuckled at the thought. "Ain't many abandoned places in New York. Just places the owners ain't using."

"I can take care of that part," Donatello said. "Well, me and Leo, if neither of us minds committing a few felonies."

"What, bank fraud?" Raphael asked, his humor fading. "I ain't asked either of you where you get money from. Don't think any of us really wanna know. It ain't like he...hell, ain't like any of us have any legal ways of getting money."

Donatello stared into the fire, adjusting his grip as Leonardo mumbled something and turned in his arms, curling up against him. Minutes passed, and Raphael thought he wasn't going to get an answer. He was laying Michelangelo out on the futon, lying beside him for the night, when he heard his brother.

"This place won't work anymore," Donatello said softly. "I won't go back underground. I just...I just can't. We either find a place or...or we go on a road trip down to Florida."

Raphael lifted an eyeridge. "'Florida'?"

Donatello lay down beside him, Leonardo nestled between them with Michelangelo.

"I'm tired of being cold," Donatello said finally.

The fire underscored his frustration, the way they were sandwiched between the flames and the van which blocked some of the draft. They could see starlight between some of the slats in the roof, and the wind blew against the walls as if winter wanted to creep in and settle over them, suffocating them with ice.

"Yeah," Raphael said, reaching across to touch his hand. "I get what you're saying."

The doors rattled, knocking against the latch. Both of them stiffened, but underneath the doors the moonlight came clear and unbroken, a cold draft with no shadows. Just the wind.

Raphael didn't think he'd ever again believe anything was just the wind.

"Okay," he said. "We swing by April's, make sure she's okay, then see if we find a place. And if we don't..."

There was a faint slurred murmur from between them.

"...then we're going to Disney world."

Raphael's face split into the first grin he'd had in days. He gave his little brother a nudge, pleased with the tired smile he got in return.

"Hell yeah, we're going to Disney world."

He glanced over at their older brother, who hadn't responded in all that time. As usual, Leonardo was still quiet against Donatello's shoulder. Raphael sighed, trying to be content that his brother was breathing at all, and instead kept up a quiet chatter to his little brother, bringing him up to speed as well as quietly soothing him back to sleep.

"Disney world, no matter what. Just gonna head to New York one more time, maybe crash in the basement under April's shop. Then we find our own place. Just gotta make sure she's fine, then Leo and Donnie break bad and get us millions of millions and we buy a damn condo."

Donatello rolled his eyes again. "Don't know about millions..."

Raphael smiled. There was precious little to smile about—the draft under the van chilled the blanket and blew against his shell, the barn walls were as useful as a threadbare blanket and his smaller brothers seemed no better than when they first arrived—but they were alive, they were getting better, and soon they'd be on the road again.

He would take what he could get.


End file.
